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Sn Joondon Oown 




Arrangement with W. Thacker 4 Co.. London. [Drawn by Frank Rcynolds. 

" AT THE frivol" 



IN LONDON 
TOWN 

By F. BERKELEY SMITH 

Author of ^'The Real Latin ^arter^ ^^ Hoiv Paris Amuses Itself ^ 
'■'■'Parisians Out of Doors,''" Etc. 




ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR AND OTHER ARTISTS 



FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 

NEW YORK AND LONDON^^ MDCCCC^/ 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

SEP 28 »906 

y«0t9yriffm Entry 
CLASS ^^ XXc, W.*: 



Copyright 1906, by 
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 

[Printed in the United States of America] 

Published, September, igo6 



a 



ontentd 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. To London Town, ii 

II. On the Outskirts of the Frivol, . . 35 

III. In Which I See the End of the Cock and 

Bell, 69 

IV. The House of Savoy, ..... 93 

V. The Devil's Highway, . . . . o 115 

VI. In Which I Escape and am Captured, . 143 

VII. Here and There, 167 

VIII. Where London Laughs, 205 

IX. About Some Things in Particular, . . 229 

Envoy, 271 



cfote\K>otd 



cfotewotc) 

Bookshelves the world over sag under the 
weight of ponderous volumes fashioned by ge- 
nial wise men who claim to have known London 
better than Pepys, Thackeray, or Dickens. 

Mine has been but a passing glance in the 
crowd — the impressions which might have been 
gained by any traveller who crossed the Chan- 
nel, hired a hansom at Charing Cross, and lost 
himself in the throng. My home having been 
in France for many years, I have naturally 
looked at London Town through Parisian spec- 
tacles set in an American frame, and, remember- 
ing the sagging shelves and ponderous volumes 
and all the helpful data bound between their 
covers, I have been careful to omit all reference 
to the Tower and all directions how to see the 
cathedrals, the Houses of Parliament, the Zoo, 
and the British Museum, between breakfast and 
luncheon, 

F. B. S. 

Paris, 1906. 



CHAPTER I 
Oo Joondon Oowti 



CHAPTER I 
uo Joondon ^own 



j^f-^"'*"''"" ________ 

.^ /^Tn~^HE girl crawled out of 

w^^^hL i ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ straightened 

^^^mr I 1^^^ j^^^ while the neat 

little stewardess helped 

her to her feet. 

Two bells clanged; the engines 

stopped and the channel steamer 

lay heaving in the yellow swash of the sea off 

the massive pier of Folkestone. Had it been 

rough ? 

Even the weather-beaten sailor at my elbow 

wiped the salt out of his eyes with the sleeve 

of his jersey and confessed : 

"It was a bit narsty, sir, wasn't it? North 

easter, sir — get 'em in November 'ere, we do — 

we'll be farst in a minute, sir!" and his great 

thumbs busied themselves with the bight of a 

line. 

II 



Sti Jo on do a Oown 



A tall, sunburnt, soldierly Englishman leaning 
against the rail in a tawny Scotch ulster pulled 
hard at his pipe and gazed joyously at the cheer- 
less leaden roofs and the cold cliffs showing 
ghostlike through the drenching fog, a fog that 
stung one's throat. 

" Home, by Jove ! " I heard him say. 

On leave from his regiment, no doubt, in a 
land of fever and sand and lying natives. His 
clean-cut features were relaxed now in a smile ; 
his eyes shining. 

As the sturdy steamer armed with her power- 
ful turbines crept in the lee of the sheltering 
masonry, she ceased her heaving. She had 
made a quick trip considering all things, and 
from the moment she had slipped clear of Bou- 
logne had forged her way to England and, with 
that incessant tremble and throb of her turbines, 
dashed through a heavy sea. She had not hesi- 
tated an instant ; her duty was to keep on and get 
it over with, and her fat pilot had driven her 
straight. 

One does not select the English Channel for 
a pleasure trip— this stretch of water with a bad 
reputation is as fickle as any woman and as un- 
trustworthy as some. Having lured you out 

12 



(Oo Joondoa 6 



oiK^n 



upon a smooth sea it may play you false halfway 
across. Or it may on short notice lash itself 
into an ugly mood, when it seems to take espe- 
cial delight in a hundred tricks unconducive to 
digestion. Upon such occasions the chop sea 
hisses in a snakelike wake from the stern. The 
heave, pitch, and drop, the savage onslaught of 
wind and water, all in bad company, fall upon 
the sturdy, spotlessly clean little vessel and tax 
her grit and power to her utmost, but on she 
goes — swiftly and unheeding — twice daily, rain 
or shine. 

This sole communication between La Belle 
France and solid England must be taken philo- 
sophically like a bad draft, and yet it is surpri- 
sing how quickly one forgets the sea and the 
ship. Land is so welcome. 

Other people now got to their feet — shook 
themselves and hunted helplessly for their hand 
luggage. Out of the chintz upholstered and 
spotless private cabins fine ladies, bereft of their 
usual poise and dignity, found their way shakily 
to the deck, and joined the crowd of other pas- 
sengers impatiently waiting for the gang-plank. 

In the crowd were crying children, fat drum- 
mers with brass-cornered suit-cases, a jockey 

13 



L 



Sn Jo on don Oown 



with a saddle, three Itahans longing for home, 
and a very young lord accompanied by a valet 
and a bag of golf clubs. 

Behind the massive pier rugged British tars 
were attending to hawser and line. A steam 
crane held the gang-plank suspended in its grip. 
It dangled aloft, its every movement watched by 
the waiting throng. 

A young Parisienne, trim in her ckic costume 
de voyage, on tiptoe to keep her pretty high heels 
off the drenched deck, stood gazing beside me 
at the sullen fog-swept town. 

" Mon Dieu ! " was all she exclaimed at her 
first glance of England. 

And I turned to her and said in sympathy: 

" Vous avez raison, Madame." 

" It is horrible, Monsieur, this fog," she re- 
plied. 

" And you have never seen it before? " I ven- 
tured. 

" Non, Monsieur — my sister is quite ill. I 
have come to bring her back to Paris. Ah! 
Mon Dieu, quel ternps ! quel voyag"e ! " she 
sighed. " It is to freeze one's bloody is it hot ! " 
and she shivered uiider her dainty fiirs. 

Orders were now being quietly giveii by gray- 
14 



Oo Jhondoa O 



own 



bearded men and blue-coated officials. No one 
shrugged his shoulders, and every one knew 
precisely what to do, which is more than I can 
say for a French port. 

Mademoiselle turned suddenly and looked at 
me appealingly. 

" You are English, Monsieur, it is so easy for 
you to " 

" No, American," I replied. 

" But you speak the language, eh — a little? " 

" We are supposed to," I answered, " but our 
English is not accepted as the standard at Ox- 
ford." 

" I can not speak a word. Monsieur. It is 
very difficult for me. Would you mind helping 
me to the train?" 

" With pleasure, Madame." 

And as I raised my hat and stood wiping 
the spray from the brim, I felt her glance within 
where was emblazoned the mark of a little hat- 
ter on the Boulevard St. Michel. 

Her eyes brightened. 

"You are of the Quartier— a student? Yes, 
is it not so?" 

" Yes; how did you guess? " 

'' You would never have bought your hat 
^5 



QJii Joondoa (Down 



there if you were not. I am so glad," she said 
frankly. 

" Then you have better confidence in me.^ " 

" Certes ! " she replied, and she held out her 
hand. "Why, parbleu, we are of the same 
quartier." 

" And of the same big family," I added. 

" Mais oui ! Bien sur," said she merrily. 

"Is that English they are speaking now?" 
she asked, drawing nearer to me as naturally 
as if we were old friends. 

" It is a kind of English," I explained. " Some 
of it is not altogether clear to me. It is a patois 
known as cockney." 

" And there are no gestures with it.^ " 

" None," I said. 

" Then it can be only half a language," she 
replied thoughtfullly. "Ah! I should not like 
to be obliged to speak so coldly as that. It does 
not seem natural. I could never be able to — to 
express myself," and her small gloved hands said 
the rest. 

" You must not forget the entente cordiale, 
Madame." 

" Pouf ! " she replied with a little toss of her 

head. " C'est de la blague 9a ! " 

16 



Oo Joondon oown 



And as she said it. the steam crane dropped 
the gang-plank in place. 

Beyond a line of polite custom officials to 
whom one's word was sufficient, was in waiting 
a solid, clean, 
and comfortable 
train, attended 
by guards whose 
sole duty was to 
attend to your 
comfort, and 
they did it, qui- 
etly, with intelli- 
gence and re- 
spect. I could 
not help noticnig 

the politeness, decency, and despatch with 
which the custom officials waited upon the 
line of passengers. They were an agreeable 
contrast to that swaggering horde of ill-man- 
nered hirelings to be found on arrival at a 
New York dock. In England one does not 
have to talk politics or pay for telling the 
truth — gentlepeople are treated with that re- 
spect due to their station in life. In England 

the law is all-powerful and enforced to the 
2 17 




Sn Jhondon 6< 



own 



letter, but it is carried out with dignity and by 
intelligent officials. 

" Mademoiselle," not madame, as I was gra- 
ciously informed, settled herself contentedly by 
the compartment window. Boys were hurrying 
past with hot tea, that conservative British bev- 
erage. Another steam crane picked up the 
steamer's baggage in the same steel compart- 
ments in which it had been packed in Paris, 
and soon had it in our luggage van. 

" Telegram for you, sir ! " called an urchin in 
a smart little uniform and a pill box cocked 
nearly over his ear and secured under his ruddy 
chin by a patent-leather strap. Compartment 
doors were slammed and securely locked ; an 
able-looking official rang a dinner bell, and we 
slid out of Folkestone, past the broad platform, 
its edge nearly flush with the train as a further 
safeguard against accident. 

The track we ran over was in marked con- 
trast to the French one to the sea which had 
given to the express from Paris a lunging rock 
that was more in keeping with a boat than a 
train, but the ballast of an English line is as 
solid as the ground upon which it lies. For the 
English line is flanked by neat hedges and has 



or 



(do Joondoix (Down 



no level crossings to annihilate unlucky pedes- 
trians. 

We pulled out of Folkestone reeking in the 
chill fog and the desultory smoke from a sea of 
chimney pois, capped upon a vast expanse of 
ancient roofs. We were speeding now past 
great factories, their tall chimneys belching more 
smoke, past scores of signboards announcing 
the mellowest brands, the oldest ale, and the 
surest matches. " Try the new sweets," ran an- 
other in plain blue letters. 

Mademoiselle, who had saved her high heels 
from the drenched deck, sitting opposite me, 
observed out of the corner of her merry eyes 
the homespun skirt and solid mannish-looking 
shoes of her neighbor. The girl at her side 
wore, too, a Norfolk jacket and a coaching pin 
stuck rakishly in a spotless white scarf. She 
was a curiosity to this little Parisienne, and she 
regarded her in wonderment. None the less 
strange to her was the ruddy old gentleman 
diagonally opposite, provided with a huge Glad- 
stone which might still serve his grandson a 
lifetime. Next to the Gladstone was an equally 
solid leather case containing a pair of the best 
guns and a green plaid rug. 

19 



cm Joondoix Oown 



No one spoke save the little Parisienne and 
myself. In France conversation would have 
been quite general. But the Englishman does 
not strike an acquaintance as easily. He, as a 
rule, has a horror of appearing -conspicuous, or 
of intruding, or of making a mistake. As a re- 
sult his conversation to a stranger is modest and 
guarded. He can not comprehend the volubil- 
ity of the French or that hail-fellow-well-met 
type of American who regards all passengers as 
his /eZ/ow passengers, and yet the average total 
stranger is a good fellow, I believe, all over the 
world, and the chance of the intelligent being 
" buncoed " is exceedingly small. 

Mile after mile the express whizzed past 
orderly stations on its rush to London. 

Once clear of Folkestone, the air was impreg- 
nated with a hazy blue mist. For brief mo- 
ments the sun struggled through and flooded 
the wet fields of snug farms, tipping with its 
saffron light the edges of the clipped hedges of 
box. 

A golden pheasant startled by the train 
skimmed along in a fluttering flight to the pro- 
tection of a neighboring wood. 

Rows upon rows of hop poles covered acres 

20 



Oo Joondon uow 



n 



bordering the railway so precisely placed that 
one could look through them diagonally to their 
limits. We went past sturdy oaks and wood- 
lands, the home of the preserved rabbit and the 
hare. 

Now and then there flashed by a glimpse of 
some solid-looking mansion half smothered in 
ivy with its kennels and outlying stables. But 
the sun can not assert itself longer, for we were 
nearing the edge of the great city. In its place 
there settled over all a saffron-colored fog. 

I believe there is not a city in any land with- 
out its characteristic odor. This odor of can- 
nel coal permeates England, growing in strength 
according to the size of the city. In London 
it has become a triple essence. It is just as typi- 
cal of London as that omnipresent smell of 
asphalt and wet dust is of Paris or the oozy 
reek is of a Venetian canal. 

It made the little Parisienne cough and re- 
peat her " mon Dieus ! " 

"And your sister, Mademoiselle," I asked, 
"how came she to come to London?" 

" She is a danseuse at the Opera, Monsieur. 
It is the climate, I am sure. I shall soon 
return to Paris and take her with me. I 

21 



Sit Jhondon O 



own 



had no idea it was like this. Poor Annette! 
she is so courageous over her art ; we were all 
against her coming — mama — papa— all our fam- 
ily, but she was offered a good engagement, and 
we, we are not rich." 

" Ah, you know Paris," she added, after a lit- 
tle pause. " The Luxembourg — the Boulevard 
St. Michel— and you know well this great Lon- 
don we are coming to? " 

"The Luxembourg and the 'Boul Miche,' 
yes," I said, " but I do not know London. That 
is why I am here. If I knew anything about it 
I should never have dared venture upon my 
present mission." 

" I do not understand," said she. 

" Suffice it for me to say then that you must 
consider me as a stranger in an unknown 
land, seeing what he can of a city in which 
it v\^ill be difficult for him to distinguish right 
from left, that he may carry away with him a 
series of impressions of what he happens to 
see." 

" Ah ! I understand," she replied. " Then it 
is not for romance that you come to this cold 
England?" she laughed. 

"Jamais de la vie," said L 

22 






(oo Joondoa O 



oivn 



We had reached the borderland of East Lon- 
don now and another dreary sea of roofs lying 
under the murky pall. Now and then I caught 
a glimpse of some wretched alley. A girl and 
a man were arguing in the slime outside a 
" pub." Hundreds upon hundreds of gruesome- 
looking byways cut, turn, and intersect the 
roofs below the tracks. 

It is not life that the wretchedly poor live 
down there. The reek, the filth, and slime, the 
dingy, sanded saloons, poverty, hunger, brawl, 
and drink, drink, drink, such as it is, make up 
their day and night. 

• "The Best of Bitters!" ran a sign upon a 
blackened roof. 

Bitter it was indeed — cruelly bitter. 

" Look down there, quick. Mademoiselle ! " 
I cried, and as she did so, I saw her eyes fill 
with tears. 

" Pauvres gens ! " she murmured. 

To it Belleville, the neighborhood of the 
Halles, the outskirts of Vaugirard and La Vil- 
lette were even gay. 

We thundered on, over trestle and culvert ; 
massive buildings loomed past in the fog; 
great solid piles of stone, gloomy factories busy 

23 




'^■^'■^'r^'vip*^^ 






BLACK PATCHES OF BARGES DRIFTED IN THE TIDE. 



24 



Oo Jootidoa Ooivii 



as beehives glittering in electricity, all of them 
making things to last and making them well for 
the most solid nation on the globe. We slowed 
down to take the Charing Cross Railroad bridge 
over the Thames. 

Far down in the swirling yellow water black 
patches of barges drifted in the tide ; men were 
crawling over them like ants. Beyond them, a 
mass of blue-gray, almost a silhouette in smoke, 
rose majestically the buildings of Parliament. 

To the wharves below came the ships of all 
nations — iron colliers, strong schooners from the 
spice islands and beyond, able, full-rigged ves- 
sels from the colonies, steamers from India and 
Japan, brigantines from Singapore, and a forest 
of others bringing to England the wealth of her 
possessions and her trade. The drone of 
screeching tugs and the belching smoke of 
steamers rose from that mighty yellow tide. 

There are some to whom the Thames on its way 
through London has appealed as an enchanted 
river — a fairy river if you will, slowly boiling and 
eddying through a magic city. To Whistler it 
became a mystic ethereal fairyland, a poetic 
waterway along which seen through the veil of 
fog and smoke even the blackened warehouses 

25 



Sn JiDondon ^i 



own 



became palaces. The lace and tangle and snare 
of rigging, the great ships straining at anchor, 
the sullen groups of floating barge and towing 
tug — all these he transformed by the magic of 
his dry point and brush into enchanted places. 

Turner saw in it the wealth of Oriental splen- 
dor. To him the waves were of molten gold, the 
ships treasuries of color overspilling their riches 
as did the Venetian galleys; not the squalor, 
the reek, the sullen fog, the daily toil of endless 
thousands struggling, starving in the slime and 
chill. Along this river front are to be found 
some of the worst elements civilization has thus 
far produced — thieves, murderers, sailors, be- 
sotted, homeless women, longshoremen, gin- 
drinkers reeling from the "pubs." These the 
most efficient police in the world will tell you 
are the real touches upon the canvas. 

It is hard to realize that, before it comes to 
town, this historic stream is one of the most 
pastoral of rivers, that it purls in innocence 
among lush grass and green reeds, finding its 
way in and out, past cozy inns and lawns gay in 
flowers, making its course capriciously until it 
hardly leaves one adorable spot untouched, — 

a river for luxurious houseboats, pretty girls, 

26 



r 



Oo Joondon O 



OtQfl 



gay parasols, and idle " punts " drifting up to 
fine estates animated with garden parties. 
Here is the quickening melody of a Hungarian 
band, there the splash of a fresh bait at the end 




PURLING IN INNOCENCE AMONG 
LUSH GRASS. 



of some holiday angler's line. What a deliciouo 
little river it is before it knov/s London,— all 
smiles and sunshine in June, still rippling and 
laughing to itself in October, and as it slips 

27 



Sir Jo>ondoii 6 



own 



along under the falling leaves even restful in 
November ! 

We had suddenly switched to a labyrinth of 
tracks dotted with locomotives shining in green 
paint and freshly wiped brass, breathing and 
biding their time, solid plain engines these, built 
for long service. Here, too, flanking the em- 
bankment gardens were the great hotels tower- 
ing like some richly carved palisade — sculptured, 
balconized,and lavishly windowed and glittering 
in electricity — cities in themselves. 

An instant later we had rolled into the mouth 
of the great station at Charing Cross — a giant 
shed, chill and dark under its smoke-grimed 
hood of glass. 

In the gloom were hurrying porters and more 
polite officials who seemed to take an especial 
care of every one as if they had expected your 
arrival. 

His Grace, the Duke of Somebody, is getting 
goutily into his brougham. 

A porter is after my trunks. An official goes 
into the maze of vehicles, straightens them out 
of a tangle, and procures a hansom for Made- 
moiselle and a "growler" for me. 

Things move briskly without a particle of 



28 



Oo Joondon O 



own 



trouble on your part and gratifying intelli- 
gence on theirs. Big, strong men these are in 
quiet uniforms, and the horses that come jog- 
ging up to their call are sturdy and in alert 
condition. 

It is a serious business this running of Lon- 
don, and there are few more serious places than 
its great terminals with thousands pouring into 
them daily and thousands pouring out. 

" Now, then, look lively, cabby ! " cries the 
giant in the uniform as Mademoiselle climbs 
in. 

" Bli'me, if 'e isn't goin' to stop 'ere all night," 
remarks the hansom cabby behind to the growler 
cabby blocking the way. 

" 'Ere y'are, sir! " returns the red-faced direc- 
tor of my growler's steed. 

" Bon voyage, et merci mille fois," comes the 
cheery voice of Mademoiselle. 

The next instant her hansom wheels sharply 
about and I catch sight of her little, gloved 
hand waving to me. 

" Where to, sir? " asked the giant in uniform, 
opening the door of the growler. 

" The Savoy." 

" SAVOY," he shouts above the din, and we 
29 



G//1 Jooadoa (5 



ovon 



clatter out of the station into the tide of Lon- 
don Town. 

It is five o'clock and the Strand is full of hur- 
rying humanity. They swarm as thick as ants 
along the sidewalks. You might think it a 
crowd pouring away after seeing a procession, 
but it is only the usual tide of the Strand. They 
dodge past each other, occasionally stopping 
to look at the brilliantly lighted windows of 
the cheaper jewelers' and silversmiths' shops. 
Young and old of every age and of every class 
jostle one another 's elbows in the tide. The 
street itself is compact and alive from curb to 
curb with traffic — a vast sea of omnibuses, of 
drays, of hansom cabs, of costers' carts hauled by 
trotting little donkeys — of ponderous vans, auto- 
mobiles, bicycles, and private carriages, the latter 
getting through the traffic to and from the great 
hotels. 

Suddenly you are stopped. You look about 
you. You are hemmed in by fifty vehicles — 
east, west, north, and south — and the air is lively 
with the badinage of coster and bus drivers and 
the chaff of the draymen. 

What has happened ? An accident.'^ 
30 



C?f 



'(do Jo on do 11 (jown 



No. Simply a '' bobby " twenty yards ahead 
in the maze has raised his hand. There is no 
disputing that; no one tries to drive on or even 
seek a chance to get through ; the blue-coated, 
helmeted bobby's raised hand is as efficient as a 
Gatling gun. In doing so he has not even been 
required to raise his voice. 
In a moment you are en 
route again. 

Lights glow ahead, ha- 
loed in the fog. 

" Extra spee-shul ! " cries 
a newsboy, taking advan- 
tage of another halt in traf- 
fic to thrust an evening 
edition under your nose. 
"Good luck, sir— good 
luck, sir," he repeats, touching his cap as you 
extricate a copper. The next instant he is 
darting like a rabbit among the labyrinth of 
vehicles after a fresh customer. 

Half an hour later the Channel, the slime and 
fog, and the crowded thoroughfare are but a 
memory, for you are sunk in an easy-chair be- 
fore a cheery fire in a palace of a hotel and the 
presiding good fairy is behind the bar chatting 

31 




Sn Jo on do a 6 



own 



with you over the latest bit at the Gaiety and 
freezing for you in a silver shaker equal parts 
of " two seasoned liqueurs, a dash of orange 
bitters, and there you are ! " 




32 



CHAPTER II 
(jti the Uutd/itttd of the c/ttvol 



CHAPTER II 

Uutdhittd of t/ie cjttvol 

HAD survived through a Lon- 
don Sunday, and the solemn- 
looking clock on the smoking- 
room mantel struck five. At 
this end of the velvet-carpet- 
ed smoking-room was a quiet 
ittle bar and behind it a cheery 
middle-aged barmaid. The 
clock ticked and the barmaid 
and I spoke to each other at 
intervals as I scanned the day's 
papers. So still was this cozy smoking-room 
tucked away in the big hotel that I was not 
aware of a third person entering it until I 
caught sight of him over the edge of the Times 
as my eye ran over the top of a refreshingly un- 
sensational column giving the present state of 
affairs in St. Petersburg. 

The newcomer who now stood chatting with 
35 




c//i Joondoa (Down 



the cheery Httle spinster as she opened for him 
a sparkhng- bottle of soda was perhaps thirty 
years of age. He was tall and soldierly, with a 
wiry slimness about him as he stood in his long 
rain-coat, his eyes, frank and brilliant as a hawk's, 
shaded by the brim of his derby. 

" You've not been in for a long time. Captain 
Radcliffe," said the little woman, fussing with a 
stubborn cork. 

" No," he replied absently, " been in Suffolk. 
Had some ripping shooting." 

" Dear me," sighed the little woman, " I wish 
I could get away. I've had my vacation tho," 
and out popped the cork. 

" Thank you ! " said he — " enough ! " and he 
touched the neck of the bottle she was pouring, 
and with his fine, aristocratic hand raised the 
glass to his lips. 

I gathered my scattered newspapers discreetly 
out of his way and resumed my conversation 
with the barmaid. 

"And you've not been to the Gaiety yet?" 
said she, turning to me. '' They say the new 
piece is a great hit. " 

"Rather!" drawled the captain. "Ripping 

good show at the ' Frivol.' " 

36 



Un the Uutd/iiztd of the c/'ctvol 

"Do you mean the Gaiety Theater?" ven- 
tured the barmaid. 

" The Frivol's not a bad name for it," re- 
turned the captain. " IVe always call it the 
Frivol. Good old name, Frivol — rather!" 

His " rather " this time I felt was half ad- 
dressed to me. 

Londoners are not in the habit of striking up 
an acquaintance so easily with a stranger, espe- 
cially in a public bar, and I did not like to force 
my conversation upon him, so I turned again to 
the barmaid. 

" Your Gaiety girls were a great success with 
us in New York," I continued. 

The stranger turned his head and regarded 
me with the air which one assumes to those one 
has not met at a tea. 

" Yes ! " replied the little spinster. " We 
heard you made quite a fuss over them in the 
States." 

" Rather," reiterated Captain Radcliffe, turn- 
ing this time squarely toward me. 

" Miss Sanderson is right," I remarked, break- 
ing the ice. " Enthusiastic houses everywhere 
they went and the dock crowded with friends to 
wave them do7i voyage.'' 

37 



c//i Jo on do ft 6 



own 



" Will you join me? " he asked as naturally as 
if he had said it in Denver. " I am Captain 
Regie Radcliffe." 

'*^ With pleasure," I replied, and we exchanged 
our cards. 

" I dare say it would be considered shocking 
bad form, our speaking to one another," he 
added seriously. "You'll forgive me, I hope. 
One does meet such a lot of rotters in public 
bars, doesn't one?" 

He stood erect regarding me out of his keen 
eyes. 

" And you are an American? " he asked. 

" Yes, a New Yorker." 

"I'll wager you had a bad crossing. The 
Oceanic, I believe, had the roughest voyage back 
in years." 

"I came from Paris," I explained. " It was 
rough enough on the Channel." 

" Oh, Paris," he replied sadly, and he smiled 
reminiscently. "Dear old Paris! It's been 
nearly ten years since I've been there. It's the 
most lovely place in the world." His whole 
manner changed as he said it. 

" I live there," I remarked. 

" You live in Paris? " 
38 



Uti the (jiitdktttd of tire cJtivoL 

" Yes, in the Ouartier Latin — near the Lux- 
embourg." 

" My dear fellow," he said, and his eyes 
danced, "you're hicky. Indeed, you are. I 
wouldn't mind it a bit. I mean Ld rather have 
my little room again under the roof in the Rue 
Monsieur le Prince and two hundred francs a 
month than a pot of money in this beastly Lon- 
don. There's absolutely nothing to do Sundays 
here. It's been a wretched day, hasn't it? " 

" Come now. Captain Radcliffe, you mustn't 
be too hard on London," put in Miss Sanderson. 
" I'll admit it is a bit dull and dead-and-alive 
Sundays, but it isn't as bad as you say, really. 
Come, be fair." 

" I'm blessed if I see how it could be much 
worse," he declared. " If we were in Paris to- 
day there 'd be plenty to do. Rather!" he 
drawled, raising his glass to mine. 

" I've lived there for years," I said, "and I've 
never known many lonely hours." 

" There you are," cried he. " Why, they send 
us to bed here at 1 1 : 30 Sundays, and even dur- 
ing the week one can't sup comfortably after 
the play; what have I done to-day?" he went 
on gloomily. " Got up at twelve, lunched in the 

39 



Qjn Joondoa O 



own 



grill room. Spent three hours* running about 
town in a hansom, stopping, telegraphing, and 
telephoning to get some one to dine with me to- 
night and a table to dine at. Not one of my 
pals in town — all shooting; but I got the table 
— rather!" he chuckled. "I tell you I've got 
one good friend at the Cecil, and that's the 
maitre d' hotel— d^diV old Leon. Known him for 
years. You don't know what it means to me to 
find some one to talk to. It's been a hideous 
day — something too awful. You'll dine with 
me, won't you ? Come, I've got a splendid table 
at the Cecil. They've promised us a little con- 
cert during dinner there to-night, and if we get 
bored why there's nothing simpler than to chuck 
it. But you'll come and dine anyway, won't 
you.f^ Say you will," he pleaded as I hesitated. 

" But my dear chap," he explained, " it will be 
a charity if you will. Come, it's a bargain, isn't 
it? I dare say the bally old concert won't be 
half bad." 

" Why not dine with fjie? " I suggested. 

" But, my dear fellow, I've got a table. You 

can't possibly get one. It took me hours in a 

hansom and a lot of bother — and I've ordered 

dinner for four." 

40 



Oil the (jutdhizt*) of the c/tivol 

But we'll be only two ! " 

" Never mind. It's better always to be pre- 
pared. Some other chaps might drop in. Never 
can tell — splendid rule that. Ordering for four. 
They give you a bigger table, you know, with 
plenty of room. Hate to bump my knees at 
little ones next to pillars, where they always 
somehow manage to stick you." 

" Then dine with me to-morrow night, and 
we'll call it a bargain," said I. " Tuesday I have 
promised to dine with an old friend of mine, the 
doctor, at the Cheshire Cheese, but I'm free to- 
morrow, and if you accept I'll dine with you 
to-night." 

" That's fair," said the little spinster, as she 
smiled through the goblet she was polishing. 

He grasped my hand heartily. 

" You're awfully good, old chap," he said. 
" I was afraid you wouldn't come." 

The concert was a success from a culinary 
point of view, a deep-sea ballad with the oysters 
being rendered by a stalwart gentleman wearing 
a camellia, followed by a breezy ditty served with 
the turbot, a French Ave Maria accompany 
ing the pates delivered by a nervous little 

41 



Sn Jo>ondoii Ooxvn 



woman in a salmon satin 
gown with a German ac- 
cent. 

Regie thought it an aw- 
ful bore. There were roast 
pheasant and the second 
cousin to a real sole ; pink 
sherbet, jellied quail; all 
might have fared better 
without the death music 
from Tristan und Isolde. 

The massive marble 
dining-room, ornate in 
things ponderous and glit- 
tering in electricity, was 
thronged wnth dinner par- 
ties. Here was an Indian Rajah with his suite; 
there a rotund financier wath his maiden aunts. 
Farther on through the maze of jeweled necks 
and bare arms one caught a glimpse of some 
celebrated beauty, marvelously preserved, dining 
in silence opposite a fat little gentleman with 
varnished hair and four emerald rings, who had 
long ago eschewed the effort of conversation. 
Whatever else was late, the champagne w^as 
invariably ahead of time, bubbling up in the 

42 




.; 



W (yi^ the Uutdkittd of t/ie crtivol 

sea of shining glasses and springlike in tem- 
perature. Again Regie referred to the bad form 
of our meeting, but I impressed upon him the 
fact that it was a godsend to me as well. 

" I know how lots of Englishmen — those Lon- 
doners who haven't been about the world — would 
regard it," he went on as we sat smoking over 
our coffee, " but we army chaps who have trav- 
eled a bit are apt to be broader about that sort 
of thing. So I knew you'd understand. I shall 
never forget how handsomely some of your 
naval men treated us in China; they gave us a 
ripping time. I'd been badly shot up carrying 
despatches, and had just gotten to feeling fit 
again when the plague struck us, the kind that 
takes you off like that," and he snapped his 
fingers. " Most of our regiment were killed off 
with it. Hardly a man in my mess left; we 
used to wager who'd go next. It's odd how I 
came to go down with it too. You see there 
was an American chap with us, one of your war- 
correspondents, and we became great pals. Poor 
Billy, he was the best sort I ever knew. Hospi- 
tals were overflowing with wounded when Billy 
got the plague." 

"And he died?" 

43 



c7/i Joondon (Down 



" My dear fellow, I did my best to pull him 
through, but it was no good. He went like the 
rest in a few days. I took care of him myself. 
I couldn't let him go into that shamble of a hos- 
pital. He wasn't the sort of chap who was used 
much to fighting and that sort of thing. My 
regiment was quartered in a town we had shelled 
the day before. The morning after Billy died 
I was down with it. They gave me up. I'm 
telling you this, old chap, for there's an amusing 
incident connected with it. It isn't every chap, 
is it.^ " he continued with a laugh, " who can say 
he's seen his own coffin. But I did, and I've 
got the receipt for it too, by Jove. Got it 
framed. I'm not a bit clever, you see. I'm only 
a soldier chap. I envy those clever people who 
can write and sing and draw, and do things, but 
if I could write, by Jove, I'd write a novel about 
that coffin of mine. I remember waking up at 
daylight in a bare stone building filled with 
plague patients. The enemy was close on us 
and there was no time for ceremony. So there 
stood my coffin next to me. It was the only 
one out of thirty-three that day that wasn't filled 
— mine was made from old packing-boxes, and 
upon one of the bottom boards was stenciled n; 

44 



Un the (jiit()ktttd of tlie cjztvol 

green letters 'Devoe's Best Paint.' Come down 
to Suffolk with me and I'll show you the receipt 
for it. I 've got it hung up in my gun-room." 

" And you were in the Boer war, too," I ven- 
tured, pushing him the cigarettes. 

" Rather," he replied. " I'd like to know who 
wasn't. But I'm not going to bore you with 
that. By Jove, if I was only clever I'd put a bit 
of that in my novel too, but I'm not." 

" Captain," I began. 

'•' Captain be hanged ! " he protested. " Call 
me Regie if you like. I'm sick of formality — ■_ 
jolly well sick of it. Besides, every one calls me 
Regie," and he filled my glass with the bubbles 
of warm Spring. 

" I remember one night," he continued after a 
pause, " I had had the good luck to be chosen 
to carry orders along our lines to a fort thirty- 
five miles away and to warn our outposts to 
double our pickets. The Boers had cut our 
telegraphic communication and were close on 
our line. A night attack had been planned by 
them, and the last orders we had telegraphed 
were to fire on any one approachnig. There 
was no other way than to send a chap to warn 
them and the lot fell tome. The route layover 

45 



cfn Joondon 6 



own 



the veldt. You could hear a horse's hoofs for a 
long distance over it, and it was pitch-dark and 
raining. Time after time as I rode up to our 
outposts I was shot at by our own men. The 
wire obstructions bothered me too, for they 
often gave the signal of my approach long be- 
fore I was seen. I was lucky, for only one bul- 
let clipped my riding-boot and another went 
through my horse's tail. I would ride up to our 
men, give orders, and go on — all night riding up, 
giving orders, and going on until I was so done 
up I could hardly keep in the saddle. When I 
reached the fort it was daylight. My poor old 
horse dropped dead and I rolled off him, and I 
didn't remember anything until the next day." 

" I'll bet they took care of you," I said. 

"Rather!" he replied, as he lit afresh cig- 
arette. " But I was sorry for my poor old horse ; 
he had put up a plucky fight, poor beast! " 

He drew forth a wafer of a watch. 

" They'll turn us out in twenty-two minutes," 
he said. " You know, I was awfully afraid you 
wouldn't come to-night." 

" Nonsense, Regie," I returned. " You de- 
serve better company. You deserve a banquet 
in your honor." 

46 



On t/ie Uutd/iittd of the d^tlvoL 

The Frivol is beautifully fashioned for its 
purpose. From its corner in the Strand radiate 
half-a-dozen busy thoroughfares, like the threads 
leading to the center of a spider-web. 

The exterior of this popular magnet of a thea- 
ter suggests a refined and comfortable interior — 
moreover, architecturally it is in excellent taste, 
this exterior of gray stone. What carving there 
is happens casually upon its well-proportioned 
plain surfaces, so that there is nothing about the 
place to offend the eye of a gentleman. The 
Frivol is not a family theater, neither was it in- 
tended for the lower classes. 

On either side of the entrance to the Frivol 
is a bar. Now these two bars are by no means 
as alike as two peas in a pod, altho they were 
built with the theater at one and the same time, 
as were the restaurant and the grill-room and the 
bachelors' "flats" above this attractive play- 
house. 

The right-hand bar is of a luxurious and con- 
servative type. Some excellent copies of old 
portraits of bygone players hang upon its walls ; 
dignified ivory-white paneling and scarlet leather 
chairs, surmounted wdth a crest, give a cheery 
touchof color. Its barmaids, too, are in keeping 

47 



G//1 Joond 



onaon uowfi 



with its atmosphere. They have an air about 
them of duchesses assisting at a charity bazaar, 
and their quiet badinage to the passing stranger 
is refined and to the habitue tactful. Healthy 
types of Englishwomen these, of fine frame and 
carriage. Their tight-fitting black dresses are 
faultlessly cut, and they know the value of a 
diplomatic word of greeting to every one. 

But its sister bar, tucked under the left-hand 
side — the windy side of the Frivol — is more in 
keeping with its name. It possesses like its 
more conservative mate a cleverly designed in- 
terior, attractive in polished greenwoods, Dutch 
faience, and scarlet leather chairs, cozy corners 
for the weary, and high-backed settles. Only it 
is far gayer — in better humor continually, if you 
will. I grew to like this side. It was like find- 
ing a rose garden in the fog. The place sug- 
gested champagne, not ale. Besides, it did one 
good to talk to Madge, as she laughed over silly 
nothings. Silly nothings are as important on 
blue Mondays as the pet prescriptions of the 
best physician. Madge's teeth were like pearls, 
and the promises she made vanished as merrily 
as the bubbles in the wine she served you. 

But the Englishman likes this sort of thing. 

48 



Uti the Uutdktttd of the cjtivol 

He enjoys a guarded and orderly little chat 
with a pretty girl, altho to the Parisian it is in- 
comprehensible. Romance to the Londoner is 
a serious business at best, involving no end of 
bother. 

The Englishman when in his cups has a hor- 
ror of losing his dignity; the Frenchman his 
sense to enjoy. 

Had this bar existed in Chicago there would 
have been trouble. In the Klondike there would 
not have been a whole glass left in it three hours 
after it opened. 

Yet in London (and not Paris) the barmaid is 
a type unto herself — a race which throughout 
the length and breadth of the great city is 
treated with gratifying respect by all classes. 
London is brutal, it is criminal and vicious, but 
it raises its hat as meekly as a well-behaved lamb 
before the cheerful " Good evening" of the girl 
behind the polished taps. She is a factor, and an 
important factor, in the running of this big town. 
The London County Council with its adamant 
and despotic laws as regards closing hours, clos- 
ing London as promptly as a nursery and send- 
ing its children out of all public places to bed 
without a protest or a murmur from the latter, 
4 49 



CV/1 Jooadotx Gown 



is a strange thing to see and a still stranger 
thing to believe when you see it done. 

A most important share of the oil which regu- 
lates London is dispensed by the barmaid. It 
is she who so often appeases the quarrelsome, 
quells loud talking, settles the beginnings of 
foolish disputes, and sends home many a young 
blood bound on a spree with a chat and glass 
and cheery "good night," makes up her ac- 
counts with honesty and precision at the end of 
the day, and seems to be to all outward appear- 
ances content with a modest salary and no tips. 

In London I have seen a woman knocked down 
by her husband in the public street in broad 
daylight, and no one interfered. He, no doubt, 
rated his wife as of less value among his posses- 
sions than his horse and dog. Among the 
lower classes such public horrors are of frequent 
occurrence. But this particular instance was 
not of the lower class. Thus, it is surprising to 
see how deferential they are to the barmaid — 
when she is behind the bar. 

The well-appointed collection of bachelors' 
flats over the Frivol make it possible for one 
living above this gilded palace of frivolity to 
leave one's fireside, partake of a gay or conserv- 

50 




THE GAIETY THEATRE 



c//i Jbondoii (Down 



ative glass beneath one's abode, dine, and go to 
the play all in the same building. 

Verily the Frivol is alluringly and wonder- 
fully made. That was precisely why it was not 
long before the reckless Captain Regie found 
himself entangled in the threads of this merry 
spider-web. He became an habitue, rarely 
missing a performance, and most of his days 
were idled away either in the gay or the con- 
servative bar, waiting for the next performance 
to begin. 

Regie had fallen in love — desperately in love 
at the Frivol with Flo. There was no better 
dancer in all England than this altogether fas- 
cinating girl. Nightly the Frivol rang with ap- 
plause to the roof. Lithe and graceful as a 
butterfly was she ; there was a snap and fire in 
her dancing which made even the oldest of blase 
Londoners readjust their monocles and grunt 
their approbation. Upon the stage of the Frivol 
appeared nightly and at matinees the choicest 
beauties of London. It is needless to add that 
the stage door led to a beehive of jealousy. 
Puffy old gentlemen could be seen toddling in 
with bouquets — a little embarrassed and hugely 
elated at their good fortune to be counted 

52 



Ua tlie Uatdlit'ctd of the cjtivol 

among the chosen few allowed behind the 
scenes. This freedom doubtless "was not 
given," as the French say. Sleek, well-groomed 
youths vied with each other in gallantry; elec- 
tric broughams brought others nightly to pre- 
sent their homage within the drafty stage en- 
trance. 

Of course, you can see all this in Paris. 
The steam-heated coulisses of the Folies Ber- 
geres or the Olympia present nightly the same 
picture. It is merely a question of infatuation 
and enough gold louis to carry on the hobby. 

When Captain Regie Radcliffe first heard of 
the Frivol he was being wheeled past one of its 
alluring posters in his perambulator by his 
nurse. Being at the time occupied with his rat- 
tle and a bun, he gave but a passing grimace to 
the gay butterflies composing the then latest 
ballet upon the bill-boards. Little did he then 
know that the Frivol had marked him for her 
own. 

'/ears had passed, during which Regie had gone 
to Eton, owned a polo stable of his own, gradu- 
ated at Cambridge, shot over his own and the 
best dogs of his numerous relations, wined, 
dined, and rode to hounds with the swagger set, 

53 



g7/i Jd on do II Oowa 



and swam easily in the vortex of idle London. 
With plenty of sovereigns any one can stem the 
tide with an easy stroke, tho it is a treacherous 
stream at best, and many a young lord has been 
seized with a cramp halfway across. 

Regie was lucky, inasmuch as his testy uncle 
living in a tomb of a house in Staffordshire 
would have none of his nonsense. 

" You're a young gambler, sir! " he v/ould bel- 
low at the spendthrift, " and I'll have none of it." 

And Regie would remain silent studying his 
apoplectic relation with a coolness that was ex- 
asperating; ride his uncle's favorite filly to vic- 
tory the next day, and get back to the Frivol 
with three hundred pounds and the old fellow's 
tearful forgiveness, after which Regie could be 
seen as usual in the front row of the Frivol 
nightly, gazing in rapture at the girl to whom all 
other women were as dandelions to roses. True, 
she had her failings. Flo was not always in the 
best of humor, but he, being impressionable and 
tender-hearted, forgave her, and she in return 
told him she loved him, a confession which ex- 
hilarated this young blood to a seventh heaven, 
until he entertained graver dreams of the future. 
Flo should leave the stage ; they would have a 

54 




Arrangement with W. Thacker k Co. London- 

THEY WOULD HAVE A HOUSEBOAT ON THE THAMES 



Qjn Jo ado a (d 



own 



town house in Park Lane after the wedding and 
a country place on the Isle of Wight and a 
house-boat on the Thames. He would babble 
on enthusiastically over such plans as these until 
the last guest in the dining-room had left, and 
the waiter stood respectfully behind his chair, 
waiting for his gold. Then Flo would draw on 
her gloves and discourage him by the sullen 
gleam in her gray eyes. She had seen enough of 
the young man of good family and the " Gaiety" 
girl united in marriage. The wrath of the fam- 
ily — all London talking — and talking about her ; 
the divorce court and the few paltry pounds 
to settle the affair (a sum always overestimated 
in the morning papers). No, Flo was wiser than 
that. Besides, she knew this reckless Regie. It 
was better he should spend his money at the 
Carlton as long as it lasted, as she had helped 
many another lad to do. As they rose to go she 
would forbid him seeing her for a month. Such 
little dinners of discouragement as these plunged 
Regie in the depths of despair. 

London to him became an inferno. After all, 
there was nothing left but the front row, where 
at least he could watch Flo through the entire 
second act and eighteen minutes of the third, 

56 



Un the (jiitdkittd of tlie c/tivol 

It was maddening, and he would have been 
far happier if he had stayed away altogether. 
He often thought so as he went out with the 
throng into the chill street and called a hansom 
to take him to a lonely supper. 

The stage-door habit is as catching as the 
measles. Hardly a gilded youth escapes. They 
take it as a lark. Regie took it seriously. 

Enter the rival, a scoundrel with nerve, no 
scruples, and a larger bank account — Regie's 
own was dwindling. 

At this point in the game Regie should have 
gone shooting, sat down on a cool rock, and fig- 
ured out his chances together with his profit and 
loss. Instead he went out of his head com- 
pletely. He was bound that Flo should marry 
him. He would wake up at night and lie for 
hours staring into the darkness of his apartment. 
Since he could not sleep there was some conso- 
lation in turning over in his mind all she had 
ever said to him, and there was much to re- 
member. The summer days on the Thames, 
when they idled under low bridges and lunched 
in good spirits at some little inn hidden away 
among reeds and flowers. This man who had 
faced death and had ridden straight into the 

S7 



c//i .Joondofz (jowti 



carnage of battle became as a child crying for a 
toy which he could not possess and which could 
never have brought him anything but ill luck 
and misery if he had. He grew morose, as- 
sumed a reckless air, coupled with periods of 
ruthless extravagance. He became afraid of 
himself and of her. His London — the London 
he knew so well and honestly hated — held him 
like a vise. He dared not go away, and he 
dared not stay. Nightly he went to the Frivol, 
to come away maddened by her — by her con- 
summate grace, by the gleam in her eyes, by all 
that makes a pretty woman the oldest story in 
the world. 

" My people are furious," he confessed to me 
one night as we sat dining together. He poured 
for himself half a tumbler of very old cognac 
and drained it. " There's the devil to pay," he 
went on, "but I'm going to fight on; after all, 
my boy, there's only one life and I'm living 
mine. Who the devil, who the devil," he reiter- 
ated, straightening in his chair, " cares a farthing 
about me anyway? When I'm dead it will be 
all over, but I mean to live while it lasts," and a 
strange, brilliant, vacant stare came into his eyes, 
a stare that made me shudder, 

58 



Uti tlie Uutdkittd of the c/ttvol 

"I'll see him damned first!" he said, smi- 
ling stiffly. " I've been honest with Flo; I love 
her tremendously," he laughed. " She shall have 
all I've got in the world, and I've got some left 
yet, rather! If she'll only marry me — only 
marry me ! " he muttered, gazing absently at his 
plate, and his eyes filled. I tried my best to get 
him to listen, and for brief moments he would 
grow silent and agree to follow my advice. 

" Regie," I said, " you're the luckiest fellow in 
the world, only 3^ou don't know it." 

He started. 

" What do you mean? " he stammered. 

" I mean precisely what I say. You don't 
seem to realize that there are thousands of men 
in London who would be grateful to be in your 
shoes." 

" I don't understand," he said shakily. " I 
don't understand." 

" I mean to say Flo has refused you. That 
was rather white in Flo. She has never perse- 
cuted you, neither has she ever encouraged you. 
What bad half-hours you have had, you have 
brought upon yourself. It seems to me then 
that Flo has more good qualities than you have 
been able to appreciate." 

59 



C//1 Joondon 6i 



o-wn 



He looked at me in a dazed sort of way. His 
cheek-bones flushed. 

'' You seem to know,'' he said, paling suddenly 
with suppressed anger. " You have never met 
Miss Crofton?" 

" Not until yesterday," I returned quietly. 

"You — you have met her?" he began sav- 
agely. 

" Yes, in a purely professional way, I assure 
you. I wrote asking for an interview, as any 
writer might ask for a chat upon her stage 
career." 

" And did she grant it? " he sneered. 

"Certainly; I found her charming." I saw 
the color mount again, but he said nothing, only 
stared — stared at me bitterly. 

" Come, my boy," I said, " we are two not go- 
ing to quarrel, are we ? " 

"Did she speak of me?" he asked huskily, 
after a pause. 

"Yes." 

" Of her own accord ? " 

" Yes, quite of her own accord." 

" What did she say — you'll not lie to me, will 
you, old chap — what did she say?" 

" She said you were a thoroughbred." 



60 



Uti t/ie (jiitdktttd of tlie cjzivol 

His eyes brightened, and as suddenly he rose 
from the table and brought his fist down upon 
the damask cloth, upsetting his glass. 

" Sit down ! " I said, " I have not finished 

yet." 

" I am going," he said tensely, his white hand 
gripping the back of his chair. 

"Sit down!" I commanded. But he strode 
past me to the coat-room, and before I could 
reach him he was gone. 

Captain Reginald Radcliffe again had entered 
the field of battle. 

Regie did not call a hansom. He strode on 

past the porter w^ith his whistle and out into the 

night. He kept on up the Strand. All this 

Regie told me the next day. The Frivol was 

not yet out. Its lights beamed forth, glistening 

on the wet tops of the waiting vehicles. Regie 

knew that his seat w^as waiting for him in the 

front row, but somehow it did not tempt him to 

enter. He looked at his watch. In less than 

half an hour the play would be out. Flo was 

then either dressing or had gone. He seemed a 

little lightheaded and, clench them as he would, 

his hands, buried deep in the pockets of his great- 

6i 



g7/i Joondon Oovon 



coat, trembled as with the palsy. Suddenly he 
turned and retraced his steps rapidly to the con- 
servative bar. He was deathly pale as he en- 
tered, and one of the duchesses who served him 
inquired in a motherly way if he was ill. 

" Been inside? " she asked, cheerily. 

Regie shook his head. 

" I'm jolly well sick of it," was all he said. 

He paid his bill and made his way into the 
street. He was going to see Flo. His hands 
were like ice. A dozen times he grasped the 
gloves in his pocket and determined to put 
them on, but he was too nervous to take the 
trouble. 

He would see her and she would tell him 
plainly yes or no. But he would know — and 
she should not refuse him. 

His rapid pace had brought him to a more 
fashionable quarter of London almost before he 
was aware of it. Five minutes later he rang the 
bell of Flo's apartment. 

No answer. 

He stood in the dull light of the hallway, 
trembling, undecided what to do. Flo was evi- 
dently supping after the theater, with whom and 

where he did' not know. His hands grew hot 

62 



Ufi the Uutdkittd of the c/tivol 

and the blood welled to the back of his ears. 
Then suddenly he turned and wrenched at the 
knob of the door and to his surprise found it 
slightly ajar. 

" Flo ! " he called. 

No answer. 

Cautiously he entered and closed the door 
behind him. 

" Flo ! " he cried brokenly. 

A canary bird in the dark dining-room flut- 
tered frightened in its cage. He groped his 
way through the boudoir, stumbling against a 
Louis XVI. table, crashing its contents to the 
floor. Beyond, in the salon, a coal fire smol- 
dered. He stirred it into a gentle blaze and 
sank into an easy-chair beside it. 

An hour — two hours passed, and still Flo did 
not return. Half an hour more dragged on. 
The minutes now became interminable. He 
started up under the strain. Something had 
occurred to him. It confronted him like a 
nightmare — the fact that he had entered with- 
out permission. It was criminal, and he knew 
it. 

" Like a housebreaker — a common thief," he 
said to himself. 

63 



cv/1 Jh on do 11 6 



o\K>n 



He got up, went back to the door, and tried 
to open it. 

There was something in the catch he could 
not solve, tho he would have given all he pos- 
sessed in the world for its secret that led to 
freedom. 

After fussing with it hopelessly, he leaned 
against the wall, the cold sweat starting from his 
forehead to the palms of his hands. 

He tried the lock again, but it was useless. 
He groped his way back into the salon shiver- 
ing. Time after time as he waited in the chair 
counting the minutes, he fought to control him- 
self from screaming in a nervous frenzy. Then 
a depression stole over him, the like of which he 
had never known before. 

" My people," he kept repeating to himself, 
"my people — I've run my race." 

Suddenly he heard the rattle of a latch-key. 
The door opened and Flo came in. 

She was drunk. 

All this Regie told me the next day, with 
every particle of frenzy gone out of him. 

" Old chap," he said, gazing at me coolly as 

he drew up two easy-chairs in the cozy bar out 

of hearing of the Httle spinster, " I've made a 

64 



Ufi the Uutdktttd of the cjzivol 



fool of myself. I could have stood anything but 
that. It was horrible. I shall never see Flo 
again." 

"And you're happy? " I asked. 

He straightened and put donw his glass. 
" Rather," said he. 



^ 




CHAPTER III 



c//i w/iic/i S (^ee the Snd of tL 
(joc/i ana cJSell 



CHAPTER III 



Qjn Wlitcli d ^ec the Sad of the 
(jock and cJSell 

RRID night, sir!" mut- 
tered cabby between 
his teeth and my bob 
as he left me at the 
Cheshire Cheese, where 
I had promised to dine 
with my old friend, the 
doctor. 

I found my way out of 
the thrash of rain into 
Wine Office Court — a nar- 
row ill-lit alley which, in the flickering light of a 
gas-jet signaling the entrance to Dr. Johnson's 
favorite tavern, made the low, ancient houses 
that had found their lot cast in this melancholy 
alley appear like a flat or two of old scenery 
stored in the rear of a stage. The flickering 

gas-jet sent its light over some freshly strewn 

69 




Qjn Joondon (jo 



wn 



sand as a further guide to the wayfarer — a trail 
which led into the famous snuggery past the 
tap-room and into a square, low-ceiled tavern 
glowing with light and redolent of good cook- 
ing and warmed by an old-fashioned grate of 
gleaming coals. 

Here, by appointment, in that very corner, aye 
upon the very bench where the goodly Johnson 
had spent so much of his life, I found my friend, 
the doctor, waiting for me. He had saved me 
a seat beside him, for the room was already 
crowded. It was interesting to note too, as one 
cast one's eyes at one's neighbors, that for the 
most part there was assenibled here a varied 
collection of strangers, savants, ladies, mer- 
chants, lawyers, physicians, and Bohemians, all 
of whom had deposited their dripping umbrellas 
in a common rack and had settled themselves 
to dine. 

Upstairs, in a box of a kitchen, pounds of 
green garden peas were simmering in their 
steam upon the ancient grill. Occasionally a 
sizzHng, sputtering flare sent a ruddy light 
dancing among the hanging pots and pans as 
some succulent chop was whisked from the hre 

or some juicy roast withdrawn for a final basting. 

70 



(5 lie Snd of the (jock and cJDeit 

Sausages hissed in their fat, mealy potatoes 
burst their jackets or tumbled restlessly as they 
boiled. Fresh orders were shouted up to the 
cook by the two waiters for more of the lark and 
kidney-pie, or another toasted cheese. 

In the tap-room were three talkative bar- 
maids, each as busy at their polished taps as a 
pilot at his wheel. The ale they sent into the 
crowded room was mellow and still, the kind 
which warms the blood, gives courage to the 
soul, and makes one kinder to one's enemies. 

You would like the young doctor. No 
crabbed practitioner is he, ascetic and grim, but 
one of those clear-eyed, manly Englishmen of 
thirty, tall enough to be a dragoon and as mod- 
est as a schoolboy. 

Over our sausages and ale he told me much of 
these old London taverns, and of the famous 
inns, the life of which time has at last obliter- 
ated. 

Inns such as Gray's Inn and Staple Inn have 
their quiet courtyards hidden in the vortex of 
busy London. The rankling half-timbered 
fa9ade of Staple Inn stands out in odd contrast 
among the modern business buildings along 
Holborn. Its gabled windows have looked 

71 



Sn Joondon Oown 



down upon the life of centuries. The rabble 
following those fine ladies and unfortunate gen- 
tlemen condemned to the gibbet has swept past 
them through years of peace and bloody history. 




/^--x 






... .iTfTtfTrg^ 



s*»* '■ 



< 



'^'^^>» «r^'- s I 



ii^'1 







OLD HOLBORN HOUSES 



,<;., 



it»HD<:: 



This old edifice has survived to stand 
in line at last with modern London. There 
is about its quiet and sedate quadrangles 
almost an uncanny silence, and its old halls seem 
to be asleep, and yet around and about this old 
inn sweeps by the uproar of the city, 

72 



olie cjnd of t/ie (jock and cJoeli 

It lies like a rock in the torrent, fostering its 
little garden-plot of green as a mountain boulder 
protects a patch of moss. It is difficult to be- 
lieve that these old inns with their scholarly dig- 
nity were ever glowing in good cheer. They 
made in their best days a successful attempt at 
walks and gardens, gay in flowers, giving to their 
habitues a home as peaceful as tho it were in the 
country, and yet from all accounts they harbored 
the must and dust of generations of tenants 
until their blinking windows gazed out dull- 
eyed, their floors sagged, their timbered ceilings 
became bent, like the backs of very old men, 
and their settled walls provided a paradise for 
scurrying rats. These patched and ragged old 
veterans harbored in their prime the wit, the 
philosopher, and the dandy, and in their old age 
they served as a sort of repository for the crabbed 
practitioner, the unknown clerk, and various 
gentlemen who never altered their abode or the 
precise habit of their daily life from their rising 
to their going to bed. 

Dickens, speaking of one of those old man- 
sions now rented in rooms, said: " It is let off in 
sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken 
fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like mag- 

73 



Qjn .Jo on don O 



own 



gots in nuts." And of Symonds' Inn he tells 
us that it was " a little, pale, wall-eyed, wobe- 
gone inn, like a large dust-bin of two compart- 
ments and a sifter." 




^« s<;aKej^^:^^ ■ 



LA BELLE SAUVAGE 



Far different must have been the old coaching, 
inns, those genial hostelries which afforded com- 
fort to man and beast at Whit Cheer, or at La 
Belle Sauvage, on Ludgate Hill, with its low 

74 



ohc Snd of the (jock and cJoeti 

galleries and court in a hubbub over the arrival 
of the fat little coach with its passengers inside, 
on its roof, and in a sort of safety cradle behind. 
How grateful an inn La Belle Sauvage must have 
been to these passengers cramped and chilled 
after going miles over muddy roads ! Old coach- 
ing-inns such as those fairly glowed in romance 
and adventure ; the highwayman holding up the 
fair lady with his pistol at the temple of her lord 
were common episodes in those days. Gossip, 
raillery, and good cheer enlivened the chimney 
corner. Crackling fires and old wines welcomed 
the stranger, the prince and pauper, fine ladies 
and young scamps, the soldier of fortune, the 
gentleman who lived by his sword, and the rake 
who lived by his cards. Buxom maids, hostlers, 
fiddlers, and dogs all made up the motley collec- 
tion in this famous refuge. What generous 
tables of polished mahogany gleamed in candles 
and old silver and groaned with everything good 
to eat the land possessed ; what quaint bedrooms 
were squeezed up under the timbered gables 
and high-post bedsteads whose sheets were 
warmed and scented with lavender for the tired 
traveler ! 

The tap-room of the Cheshire Cheese had 
75 



Sn Jbondoa (do 



wn 



grown noisy and dim with pipe-smoke when 
the doctor and I strolled into it after dinner. 
Now and then the dingy door leading into the 
rain-swept alley without opened to admit a 
late guest and his dripping umbrella. This 
little room, undersized as it was, dispensed a 
mighty quantity of ale and spirits. It was even 
busier than its smoky comrade upstairs, the 
kitchen. 

The doctor and I had edged our way to the 
bar when I felt a grip upon my arm, and I 
looked up into a genial smug face, half-hidden 
by the turned-up collar of a mackintosh and the 
turned-down brim of a gray felt hat. Then the 
owner of the hat turned up the dripping brim, 
two merry blue eyes looked into mine, and a 
familiar voice bellowed : 

" Well, I be hanged ! " 

If the man whose hand clasped my own in a 
hearty grip had dropped from the sky into this 
old London tavern, I could not have been taken 
more by surprise. 

It was Jimmy Norris from San Francisco — 
Jimmy who at thirty-eight had won the confi- 
dence of half-a-dozen shrewd millionaires in ex- 
change for his level head in the solid handling 

76 



^Iie cjiid of the (jock and cJocli 

of other people's money, his generous personal- 
ity winning for him a legion of friends halfway 
around the world. 

I have never known his equal. He has the 
secret of life — to keep happy and to keep every 
one who has had the good fortune to come 
under the spell of his sunny personality happy 
about him. 

Jim's stories are celebrated from the Atlantic 
to the Pacific. They bubble out of him, inex- 
haustible as a mountain spring. He has the 
keenest sense of humor of any man I ever knew, 
and I doubt if he has an enemy in the wide 
world. 

" Been here a month," he went on enthusias- 
tically. " Biggest scheme I ever handled — go- 
ing to build a railroad down in the land where 
the nuts come from. It'll be a corker. Besides 
a few^ electric cranes for Japan," he chuckled. 
" Just back from Yokohama — came bang 
through to London — glad to meet you. Doctor. 
It's luck to find you two fellows here." His 
smug face was wreathed in smiles now. " Nasty 
night, eh, boys? but she'll clear up. Yes, sir-r-r, 
we'll have blue sky to-morrow. Just been talk- 
ing to an old sea-dog at the Blue Posts. He's 

77 



c7/i Jbondoi (5 



own 



the skipper of a sixty-foot schooner; wind going 
to shift to northwest, and he's off at dayHght 
bound for France with a load of coal," and 
Jim shook hands with the barmaid. 

" Now, Ada," he said, '' when you can take a 
siesta from the main pipe connecting the 'bitter' 
you know we'll be obliged to you for three dry 
martinis. Haven't forgotten how I told you 
to make them, have you? " 

" Let's see — old Tom, vermouth," she re- 
peated. 

"And — and?" coaxed Jimmy. 

"A dash of bitters," added the girl with a laugh. 

" Right you are — go up head." 

" It's ducky to see you back in London, Mr. 
Norris," said the barmaid as she shook the con- 
coction with a will. " You 'aven't quite forgot- 
ten us, 'ave you?" 

"How could I ever forget you, Ada?" re- 
turned the man who dealt in electric cranes and 
railroads. 

At this sally the girl pinned half of her bunch 
of violets — the one touch of color upon her 
tight-fitting black bodice — in Jim's buttonhole 
with an air of satisfaction. 

" There, my word, but that does make a gen- 

78 



olie c?n() of the (jock anJ cJaell 

tleman look smarter, doesn't it? " she nodded, as 
she arranged the other half of the bunch in her 
bodice. 

Jim is the sort of fellow who can stay up four 
nights and look fresher for it the fifth. As he 
stood there talking to the doctor, immaculate in 
a freshly valeted suit of gray tweed, I noticed 
his stocky, well-made frame and the breadth of 
his shoulders. 

Suddenly the man of steel cranes and rail- 
roads became silent, twirling slowly the stem of 
his glass between his thumb and forefinger. 

" Boys," he said seriously, "both of you have 
got to come along with me to-night. I 'm in hard 
luck." 

" Hard luck? What's up?" we exclaimed. 

" I'm a homeless waif," he returned with smi- 
ling dignity. 

" Yes, you look it," I retorted. 

"Fact, just the same," replied Jim, and he knit 
his sunburnt brow. 

"Come, Jimmy, out with it," I said, "what's 
happened? " 

" Well, the fact is," and a savage light crept 
into his blue eyes, "the fact is, I'm going to be 
turned out of my hotel." 

79 




ONE OF THE OLD INNS 



(jlie (hnJ of t/ie (jock anci cJdeii 

" You out of your hotel, nonsense ! " we cried. 
" Have you broken the glassware or insulted the 
proprietor? Jim, you're joking." I looked 
at him curiously, for he really seemed in 
earnest. 

" No more roof for little Willie by the morn- 
ing," said he, and he raised his glass with a sigh. 

" Do you really mean to say you're actually 
turned out of your hotel? " questioned the doc- 
tor. " Gad, 'pon my word, that is rather steep, 
isn't it? Mind you, if there's any trouble," 
drawled the doctor in his quiet voice, which rose 
to a higher key as he slowly grasped the situ- 
ation. " Where is the bally proprietor, any- 
way?" he cried. The doctor had straightened 
to his full height now, his clear brown eyes 
snapping with interest. " I shouldn't mind hav- 
ing a word with him myself. He wouldn't dare 
try that game on an Englishman, I'll wager 
you. I'm blessed if they're not getting to be 
something too awful in London lately. I'll be 
blessed, my dear fellow, if I wouldn't give him 
a jolly good lesson. Rather ! " 

" Benson," said Jim, turning to the bar boy 

with a gleam in his eyes that meant business, 

"call me a hansom." 

6 8i 



qJh Jhondon (Down 



"Very good, sir!" said the boy, and he hur- 
ried after one in Fleet Street. 

" Come, Doctor, we'll all three get into a sea- 
going hack and you'll see for yourselves," 

" We're with you," we cried. 

" Hansom, sir," announced Benson, slapping 
the drip from his collar. We rushed out and 
climbed in, Jim m.uttering some instructions 
to the cabby as we went swaying off into the 
downpour. 

I wondered what my cabby who called it a 
" 'orrid night " was saying of it now. 

The sky hung like a black pall behind the 
gloomy buildings, a pall rent at intervals by 
streaks of jagged lightning and crashing thun- 
der; the rain continued to thrash down upon 
the city in sheets, leaking through the closed 
hansom. It was often difficult for the wiry little 
horse to keep upon his feet, but he jogged 
bravely on. 

Occasionally I caught a glimpse of Jimmy's 
smug countenance illumined as he puffed at his 
cigar. I thought once or twice I detected a 
grim smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes, and 
I remember nudging the doctor, who, like my- 
self, had been unusually silent during the drive. 



82 



olie CjfiJ of the Goc/i and cJSell 

expecting to have plenty of talking to do upon 
our arrival at Jim's ill-mannered hostelry. 

Was it after all only a joke ? 

Had Jim coaxed us out this infernal night on 
a wild-goose chase after a landlord who did not 
exist ? 

Jimmy's grim smile was suspicious. I had 
begun to feel sure we would bring up short in a 
fevv^ moments past some fashionable corner to a 
smart hotel, a blazing fire, and a glass, when our 
hansom, taking a dark street, stopped with a jolt 
in front of an ancient low-roofed structure light- 
less and to all appearances deserted. 

" We've arrived," announced James. " Follow 
me. 

We got out and rushed for a sheltering eave 
while Jimmy knocked at an ancient door. 

Above us hung an old signboard creaking 
mournfully as it swayed in the storm. 

" Gad ! " exclaimed the doctor, peering up at 
the swinging board, " it's the Cock and Bell." 

A shuffling sound of footsteps and a wavering 
light now came near us in response to Jim's 
sharp knocking, and the voice of an old man 
called, "Who's there?" 

"That you, Briggs?" cried Jim. 
83 



Sn Jhondoa Bown 



" Yes, sor." 

A heavy bolt shot back and the door was cau- 
tiously opened by an old man-servant. A sud- 
den gust of wind snuffed out the candle he held, 
and we entered a narrow hallway in the dark. 

" Told you I was going to be turned out," re- 
marked Jim drily over the sputtering flare of 
Briggs' now relighted candle. " The Cock and 
Bell is up at auction in the morning. I'm the 
last guest. I knew you fellows wouldn't come 
if I told you the truth. I couldn't stand coming 
back here alone. I felt like a man forced to 
spend a night in a graveyard. Why not sit up 
and cheer up the old place in its last hours? " 

He opened the door of a spacious low-ceiled 
room choked with fine old mahogany. 

" Look in there if you're interested in old fur- 
niture. There's enough in there to furnish a 
small museum, and all of it genuine." 

Chippendale cellarettes were ranged next to 
shining tables, old sideboards, and carved chairs, 
while stacks of rich old silver , platoons of decan- 
ters, and baskets of spoons glittered among boot- 
jacks and warming-pans. 

" Every mother's son of them is going under 

the hammer in the morning," growled Jimmy. 

84 



^ke (s>nc) of the Goc/i ani) cJoeli 



"Isn't it a shame? Ground sold. The Cock 
and Bell to be torn down. Horror of a new 
apartment going up. Lift, steam heat, and elec- 
tric lights for the world and his wife." 

" It's enough to make your blood boil when 
you think of its ignominious end after all the 
good cheer this old tavern 
has afforded for genera- 
tions." 

"You should have seen it 
this morning," he went on. 
" Cook choked up and wept 
so he couldn't cook the 
breakfast, and half-a-dozen 
old fellows, some of whom 
have made this their home 
for forty years, left the 
breakfast-room with dim 
eyes and a heavy heart." 

" Letters for you, sor," interrupted Briggs, and 
he handed Jim three cablegrams and a packet 
of mail. We forgot all about Jimmy's ruse as 
we thought of the end of the Cock and 
Bell. 

We followed the faithful Briggs into the old 
lounging-room in the rear cleared of everything 

85 




Sn Joondon O 



own 



except a few well-worn leather-covered arm- 
chairs and a bare round table. 

The shadeless windows blinked out into the 
night. Briggs thrust three candles into the 
necks of as many empty bottles — all the candle- 
sticks being ticketed with the rest of the effects. 
Then he went in search of an old packing-box, 
broke it up, and soon had a crackling blaze lick- 
ing up the chimney. 

He busied himself about our comfort noise- 
lessly. He was a very feeble and a very old 
man, whose deep-set, kindly eyes had seen much 
in their day. Old fogies and old port need a 
deal of waiting on. It is even rumored that he 
had loaned money to a duke, and had comforted 
many a ruined spendthrift with tact and fatherly 
advice. 

Now he was the only one left, and his voice 
as he spoke to Jim had an awed note in it as if 
there had been a murder in the house. 

"Anything to drink left, Briggs?" inquired 
Jim. 

" I'll go and see, sor." 

"And Briggs, while you're about it, bring 
some cigars. We're none of us sleepy." 

The doctor and I felt our damp clothes as 



86 



olie ond of the (jock and cJoeti 

we stood steaming before the fire and wished 
Briggs luck on his trip to the cellar. 

Presently he came shuffling back with six 
glasses of varied dimensions and a small brown 
keg. 

Out of the keg he dribbled apologetically just 
five glasses of Benedictine. 

" There be the last drop of liquor in the old 
house," he said with a quaver in his voice. " It's 
a sorry bending, sors, a sorry bending." 

The doctor, who had pulled up a warm arm- 
chair and now sat stretching his long legs before 
the blaze, reached for his glass. As he did so a 
sudden flash of lightning and a cracking boom 
of thunder set the old-fashioned square panes in 
the windows to shivering. 

" Briggs, don't tell us there are no cigars," 
groaned Jim. " We need them badly." 

" I've searched the 'ouse, sor. It's too 
bad." 

He paused for a moment and passed his shriv- 
eled hand through his sparse gray hair. 

" There may be one or two in the little cup- 
board," said he. 

He returned in a few moments with a box in 
which lay six dried-up Havanas. 

87 



c//i Joondon Oown 



" They belonged to Jeemes, the cook, sor," 
he explained. 

And then it occurred to us simultaneously 
that we were the Cock and Bell's last guests 
and the least entitled to be so. 

In one corner of the hall stood a partitioned 
rack which until that morning had held the 
keys, slippers, mail, candlesticks, and prayer- 
books of the habitues of this ancient tavern, 
morning prayers being a ceremony which many 
of these old fellows, gouty with port, crawled 
down to in the morning as a sort of penance for 
being carried up the winding stairs in the early 
dawn in their cups. It is not to be wondered at 
then that the end of the Cock and Bell was 
like the breaking up of a family, and that blus- 
tering, testy old Billy Chitterdon had wept with 
the fine old gentlemen who had stayed to the 
end. 

Even short, stubby, idle Mr. Dodson had 
made a little speech, a task which he had risen 
to shakily upon his gouty legs and sat down in 
the middle of, unable to continue. 

Whereas that rotund and dull James Worth- 
ington, always immaculate in a red plush vest 
of the color of old Burgundy, embellished with 



olie Snd of the (jock and cJoeli 

pearl buttons and purchased in Paris in the 
early seventies, had said simply, wiping his 
watery blue eyes : 

" I am homeless, gentlemen ; the Cock and 
Bell has been a home to me for over thirty 
years, and I dare say I am now too old to change. 
I have a horror of new places and new ways." 
And then, bursting forth in a tirade against the 
march of so-called modern progress which 
mowed down such venerable landmarks as the 
Cock and Bell until he grew purple with rage, 
he went stamping upstairs for a last look at his 
old room, swearing like a pirate. 

Dawn came. The fire slumbered in its 
embers. 

The back room had grown chilly. The five 
glasses of Benedictine had long since been 
drained to their oily sides and the six Havanas 
slowly consumed to their bitter ends, stumps 
which were stubbornly fostered at the point of 
our penknives. 

" And you, Briggs," I said to the old servant, 
" where are you going? " 

The old man looked up and quietly said : 

" To Mr. Worthington, sir, in Kent. He will 

89 



cjn Jo>ondofi O 



own 



go back to the house in which Sir James, his 
father, Hved. He's dead, sir, is Sir James; his 
'oss fell on him, sir, a-huntin'." 

The old man followed us respectfully through 
the chill hallway to the door. 

"I'll wire you where to send my luggage, 
Briggs," said Jimmy, and he passed out of the 
Cock and Bell. 

The doctor was about to follow at his heels 
when I stepped in front of him and across the 
threshold. 

" Before you, my boy," I protested. " If there 
is to be a last guest at the Cock and Bell it 
shall be you. It is your right. You are an 
Englishman." 



90 



» 



CHAPTER IV 
^blie OlDoude of &avoi/ 



CHAPTER IV 



V. 1 / 

f;xyii7t^^ ^/le OiDOLide of &avoij 



THE fifteen flunkies gave a parting word 
to one another in sotto voce, drew on 
their white cotton gloves, and saw that 
their powdered wigs were secure. This 
done, they distributed themselves in attendance 
over the red velvet carpet at the top of the broad 
flight of steps descending to a foyer that would 
have graced the palace of a king. 

Little lights began to glow up hidden in the 
cornice of this spacious room, whose dignified 
panels were hung with copies of the famous por- 
traits of Reynolds and Gainsborough. Over 
the floor of this foyer were grouped lounges and 
dainty chairs upholstered in pale apple green 
and drawn up to smoking-tables. 

At the end of this foyer, screened by transpar- 
ent glass, lay a jewel-box of a dining-room now 
glowing in shaded candles and fragrant with roses. 

93 



Sn Jd on do II Oown 



Coming down to it through the foyer you dis- 
cover that the gilded ceihng of this jewel-box is 
low and that its walls and supporting pillars are 
as rich in color as scarlet morocco, and that its 
floor is covered with tables spotless in damask 
and glittering in silver and glass. 

Should your inquiry lead you to a more 
microscopic investigation, you w^ould discover 
'that the silver upon these tables is as bright as 
if it had been displayed to you in its case at the 
silversmith's and that each glass is as immacu- 
late as a bubble. 

All this I have attempted to describe is only 
the setting of the stage whereon the farce, or 
comedy, or tragedy, as you will, is to be in a few 
minutes enacted. 

It is the stage-setting of a master hand, cost- 
ing an outrageous sum, and only possible in a 
city of limitless wealth and luxury. Then you 
suddenly remember as you gaze back through 
its vista of jewel-box and foyer — past the fifteen 
bewigged flunkies and into the dignified, rest- 
fully lighted marble hall, and out at last to the 
covered rubber-paved court, with its massive low 
arch spanning the ever-arriving automobiles and 
hansoms, and its keystone surmounted with a 

94 



^Iie c/Goude of &avoij 



golden statue — that the modern house of Savoy 
is not after all an historical palace, or some but- 
tressed and moated stronghold, whose halls have 
held the life of a gay court or echoed with the 
rasp of rapier and clash of halberd. For it is 
catalogued among the world's institutions under 
the plebeian word " hotel." 

But it is far more than that. It is, as I have 
said, an institution. Just as is its neighboring 
caravansary, the Cecil, it is a city in itself. 
Much less than a score of years ago the best of 
London's hotels were gloomy affairs, utterly de- 
void of all modern comfort — gloomy hallways, 
morgue-like breakfast- rooms, and depressing old 
bedrooms, whose only excuse for existing 
seemed to be based upon the fact that they had 
always been so and never would be any different. 
To-day all fashionable and intellectual London 
pours in a daily and nightly stream to live or to 
lunch, dine, or sup in these modern institutions. 

If you would see the life of London, its 
wealth, its fashion, its nobility, and its intellect, 
you may do so at your ease over your coffee and 
cigar in this house of Savoy. One wonders if 
fashion entertains in its own home any more. 

But to return to the foyer. 
95 



Sfi JoondoJi (Down 



A quiet little man with alert eyes is giving a 
final sweeping glance to the setting of the stage. 
He raises his eyes to a waiter. One of the ven- 
tilators in the ceiling of the foyer is not working 
smoothly; a match-safe upon the third table 
from him has not been properly polished, and a 
chair is out of place. These 
attended to, he leaves the 
stage by way of a hinged 
panel and disappears into 
the depths of another world, 
a veritable city below stairs 
which makes all this per- 
fection above it possible. 

The curtain has rung up. 
It is the hour to dine. The 
flunkies' arms are being 
laden with sticks, coats, and 
hats, and the maids in an 
adjoining room, as exquis- 
itely refined in its appoint- 
ments as the boudoir of a princess, are busy with 
hats, veils, and opera cloaks. For here no woman 
may enter with her hat on. 

Wealth and Beauty have just arrived. Wealth 

wears a monocle and is nearly bald, but Beauty 

96 




olie a\Doiide of &avoij 



is radiant as the waiting-maid slips her furs from 
her smooth white shoulders. 

Enter fat Hypocrisy, suavely, plausibly, with 
his bearded chin held high, and a prim family 
like a brood of young pheasants following at his 
patent-leather heels. 

Enter Idleness, rotund and clean-shaven. 
Enter a healthy band of rugged old age (seven 
of these), who have seen service in war, who 
have known hell in various mundane phases, 
and have stood by and done their duty like 
men. It is quite a large dinner party. They 
are so modest, these fine old gentlemen, so gen- 
tle withal, with a certain boyish gallantry toward 
the women with them. One of these is the 
niece of an emperor, another the lady of a lord, 
the pale little woman by her side the wife of a 
famous general. 

Enter casually the cad before the savant, the 
lawyer behind the money-lender. Forward 
moves the procession, the adventuress, the con- 
servative mother, and the smiling debutante. 
Enter the lean diplomat, faultless in attire, se- 
lecting a cigarette from a thin gold case as he 
walks. 

Enter Avarice, his pudgy white hands ringed 
7 97 



Sn Joondon ^ovoti 



with jewels, an Englishwoman upon his fat arm 
listening bravely to his nasal accent : 

" Rand is firm. Vest Coast veak, my dear," 
I hear him say; "but dot doesn't matter, my 
dear; don't vorry, to-morrow ve vill see — ve vill 
see." 

Enter a young girl, fresh as the rose in her 
blue corsage, and as pure, with a healthy young 
giant who led a charge once that all England is 
yet thanking him for. 

Enter three blase youths yawning and fum- 
bling with their coat checks. 

Enter now a fresh flock of bare arms and 
jeweled necks and white-waistcoated men. 
Stiflly and formally they search the jewel-box 
and find their waiting tables. 

Here, too, you find your own. 

The room hums with the chat of those who 
are dining, but their conversation is not ani- 
mated. The air is not vibrant with that exuber- 
ant gaiety one is accustomed to in a Parisian 
restaurant. 

These healthy, staid Anglo-Saxons are always 
so eminently respectable ; their reserve is ama- 
zing. 

Neither does the English beauty grow on 



^Iie OiDoude of &avoij 



every family tree. Many are severely masculine 
and walk with as firm a tread as men, strong- 
limbed and strong-featured. Others seem to 
have inherited a reserved shyness, especially be- 
fore men whom they have been born to regard 
as their superiors. 

An alert, swarthy little man and a Parisienne 
now enter. Ah, yes! their table has been kept 
for them. It is refreshing to see her. She is so 
alive, so exquisitely made, and so purely femi- 
nine. They are seated now, and she is explain- 
ing to him something of no importance, but it 
is the way she says it which is so charming. 
Her jeweled hands, accenting every word, flash 
like two rare butterflies in the sun, she with her 
olive skin, her brilliant eyes, a touch of rouge 
neatly applied to her roguish lips, and her shi- 
ning hair resplendent in ripples of gold. One 
white hand flutters for a second and remains still, 
clasping her drooping string of pearls. 

"She is artificial," you say. Yes, but her 
artifice has been brought to such di finesse that 
it has become as genuine as her temperament. 
There is nothing artificial about that, I can as- 
sure you. The Englishwoman lacks her charm, 
her *' allure." To the Englishwoman the public 



I ore ^^ 



Qjn Joondon Gown 



dinner is always a function. They seem con- 
scious of being in a public place. "One can 
never be too careful when one is in evidence," 
they agree. 

Parisians are not conscious of this feeling of 
publicity; they live without public censure or 
restraint, with absolute freedom and independ- 
ence. Life among them is too well understood 
to be otherwise. They make love to each other, 
and discuss their most intimate secrets, when 
practically touching elbows with the stranger at 
the adjoining table. The " rallonge," that prac- 
tical little board which when added to your table 
makes it possible for you to dine by the side of 
Madame or Mademoiselle, is a wide enough 
bridge to insure that etiquette which every 
Parisienne understands so thoroughly in the city 
of Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternite. 

I have noticed, too, that it is a common cus- 
tom among Englishwomen to stare, even to rais- 
ing a pair of lorgnettes to obtain a more positive 
focus on the stranger, as if they said: " Who is 
that most extraordinary person? " 

Parisians regard this as the height of ill-breed- 
ing. But it must be said fairly that this cus- 
tom does not exist among Englishmen. If their 

lOO 



(olie cKooLide of <^aK>oij 



selfishness and inborn sense of superiority over 
other nations prompt them to look after their 
own comfort first, they are likewise extremely 
reticent in appearing conspicuous, whereas the 
Frenchman — the Parisian, I mean — is in nine 
cases out of ten 2. poseur. The other tenth are 
as good fellows as good Englishmen are, or any 
other thoroughbred the world over. It is the 
Frenchwoman who has inherited the lion's share 
of those qualities known as sterling, and it is 
she who keeps France on her feet. 

Warmed by good food and wine, the jewel- 
box of a dining-room has become more animated. 
An honorable M.P., just over an attack of gout, 
has waddled in late with an intolerant old bar- 
rister. Having both seated themselves goutily 
at the table reserved for them, the honorable 
M.P. wipes his eye-glasses and begins methodic- 
ally to study the wine list. This is a delicate mat- 
ter with him, for he knows he must pay the fiddler 
to-morrow if he should dine unwisely to-night. 

The wine list is in itself a study — a critical 
essay upon vintages. " List " is much too ordi- 
nary a word for this serious catalogue that sup- 
plies good cheer to the house of Savoy. 

lOI 



Sn Joondoti ^o 



wn 



It is surprising how smoothly runs the serving 
of the various dinners about you, including your 
own. From the fifteen bewigged flunkies in 
knee-breeches to the humblest waiter, you have 
met with nothing but instant attention and 
the quiet civility of perfectly trained servants. 
Summon the wrong man, turn your head and 
raise your eyes to the nearest one in waiting 
who catches your glance, and your slightest wish 
is performed noiselessly, cheerfully, and with 
despatch. 

There is, you discover, not an Englishman 
amongthem. They are all Austrians, Germans, 
or Hungarians. 

Thus has the secret of serving modern fash- 
ionable London been solved. 

On the other side of the glass doors screening 
the brilliant dining-room, a red-coated band is 
throbbing through a waltz — more Hungarians, 
you are led to believe, but here you are mis- 
taken, for only the cymbalist with his flying 
hammers is from the land of the Magyars. The 
rest are from sunny Italy and beyond. I knew 
the cymbalist the moment I caught sight of him, 
— fat, swarthy old Bela. He and I have" gone 
about Budapest nights together, hunting up 

102 



(5 lie &Goude of (^avoy 



some old friend of his to play for us. And we 
would perhaps find him in the early hours of the 
morning in some dingy box of a cafe hidden like 
a rabbit burrow beneath the street. Here with 
the rest of his band he was still playing for the 
very love of playing, and then he would play for 
us until all three of us would go in search of 
another old friend of Bela's, and having found 
him perhaps covering up his cymballum for the 
night, or rather the morning, he would, to con- 
vince us of the joy of such an impromptu meet- 
ing, play for us until dawn. 

So you had better believe that I was glad to 
see old Bela, that hospitable gipsy with the skill 
of a virtuoso and the heart of a child. And at 
the end of the throbbing waltz he had grasped 
my hand heartily and wrung it as his fat counte- 
nance relaxed into a smile ; what he said was in 
Hungarian, but it meant that he was happy. 

I happened to express in a casual way a wish 
to this good old gipsy to go behind the scenes 
of this stage and its fashionable world. 

" Then you must go below ; there is another 

city down there," he said pointing to the floor. 

" Come," he continued, after a moment's 

thought, " I will present you to the one in charge 

103 



Sit Joondoa Oown 



of every detail. He is a Hungarian, too. He 
will show you all when he knows that you know 
Budapest and love our people." 

" Ah ! " he cried, turning, for a familiar voice 
in Hungarian caught his ear, and as I looked 
up I saw by his side the alert little man who 
had given the final touches to the setting of the 
stage. He bowed pleasantly and extended his 
hand. Five minutes later I followed him 
through the hinged panel and stood on the 
threshold of another world. The glittering 
throng in foyer and jewel-box had vanished as 
completely as a fairy scene behind the curtain. 
On we went down a narrow iron stairway, to the 
right and to the left. Suddenly we emerged in- 
to a spacious room of savory smells and polished 
steel ranges, of shining batteries of copper 
saucepans and a miniature army of white-capped 
cooks. The air was alive with the French lan- 
guage — all the signs were in French ; the great 
kitchen as busy as a stock-exchange. Every 
space we passed through this magic under- 
ground city was full of interesting things, all of 
which the alert little man leading me showed 
me the tops, bottoms, and sides of. Here cleanli- 
ness and system went hand in hand. As for the 

104 



olie clKDoiide of &avoi/ 



system, it would have interested a general who 
was planning a campaign. Here, too, next to 
this big kitchen that labored for the jewel-box, 
was a less spacious one whose sole duty it was 
to supply extra creations for the jewel-box's 
neighbor, the Cafe Parisien, with its open grill. 
Further on were suites of culinary apart- 
ments ; the walls of the one we have just entered 
flanked by refrigerators through whose glass 
doors I see reposing a chosen lot of cutlets, 
chateaubriands, and filets, each as carefully 
placed upon its glass shelf as a rare coin in the 
collection of a connoisseur. In an adjoining 
library dozens upon dozens of ducks, tender 
chickens from France, woodcock, quail, and 
pheasants were in waiting in their right temper- 
atures. Rushed as each department was, I 
rarely heard an order given. This vast army of 
cooks and assistants worked silently. Here, at 
least, too many cooks did not spoil the broth. 
Suddenly from the ceiling above me a stentorian 
voice shouted through a megaphone an order 
for two young ducks. It was the voice of a chief 
cook three hundred feet away in the big kitchen. 
Instantly the librarian opened a glass case and 
sent them post-haste to the chef s right hand. 

105 



Sn Jbondon ^i 



Ot^fl 



" That megaphone saves us time," quietly- 
remarked the alert little man at my elbow. 

He stopped as we passed on, and drew my at- 
tention to a row of busy little machines, steam- 
ing and clicking. As he did so an ^g^ rose 
from the machine nearest me and tumbled into 
a wire tray. It had been boiled automatically in 
three minutes and eighteen seconds, so the 
pointer in the graduated scale announced. Out 
popped another from the fifth machine along the 
line, a picnic egg this time, destined to be sliced 
in a salad. 

Further on was a room in which a clever 
Frenchman did nothing all day long but make 
candy roses and automobiles. In a near-by 
atelier another Parisian, a sculptor this time, 
was busily occupied in carving with mallet and 
chisel beasts, birds, and fishes out of solid blocks 
of ice to lend enchantment to pink ices. Be- 
yond was a sugary workshop for tarts, candies, 
fruit glaces, and pastry for pates. Again we 
stopped before an invention, a series of dumb- 
waiters, their shelves heated by electricity. 
These were used solely for giving service to 
suites and bedrooms. Upon pushing a button 
each little dumb-waiter with its charge sped up 



1 06 



^Iie ^Goude of (^avoij 



to the floor desired, announced its arrival by an 
illuminated sign, added that it was coming 
down, empty or full, or had been sent on a false 
alarm, and advertised its arrival upon reaching 
the bottom. 

And now an iron door shut out the realms of 
things cold, hot, or steaming. The room we 
had entered pulsated with the mighty force of a 
score of giant dynamos controlled by a white 
marble switchboard shining in brass levers. 
Again the language about one had changed as 
we crossed the threshold of the iron doorway, 
for these bare-armed electricians in charge of 
the whizzing dynamos were all Englishmen. 
In two adjoining antechambers I peered down 
into the depths of two artesian wells and shiv- 
ered when I realized that their bottoms lay five 
hundred and ninety feet below. From their 
great depths came water as pure as a mountain 
spring. 

On we went, now entering a whole factory for 

the manufacture of artificial ice in blocks of all 

sizes down to bushel-baskets full of tiny cubes 

to accompany the pats of butter with one's 

morning coffee and roll. Another series of 

iron stairs like those in the engine-room of an 

107 



Sn Joondon oown 



ocean liner brought us to a tropical temperature 
and a line of mammoth boilers. Here but one 
man was in attendance, the boilers being stoked 
automatically by means of an ingenious electric 
crane which weighed, and reported as well, every 
pound of coal it carried. A neighboring pas- 
sageway held a square box with a glass front. 
" This," explained my companion, " tells in- 
stantly the precise temperature of every working 
room." Within a radius of this region were ma- 
chine-shops and others for the repairing of elec- 
tric fixtures, locks, silverware, and furniture. 
All ran like clockwork; so perfect was their 
organization that a handle that had come off a 
bureau drawer in my bedroom was discovered 
and repaired within two hours without my 
ordering it done. 

Another city now came dimly into view, a 
subterranean village of rare vintages and some 
priceless wines, with a whole tramway serv- 
ice, like that in a mine, for getting them from the 
most remote corners where they slumbered 
swathed in dust and cobwebs, and speeding them 
on their way up to the jewel-box and into the in- 
terior of the connoisseur. 

Look back upon this stupendous and perfect 
1 08 



(olie cADoude of (^avoij 



installation, this gigantic house of Savoy with 
its exquisite suites and rooms furnished by an 
artist (a decorator and an architect) with brains ; 
its mosaic bathrooms fitted with every comfort 
known to human flesh ; its whole ensemble from 
roof to cellar in modern perfection, and figure 
in your mind's eye if you can what it cost. That 
was precisely the question which I asked the 
alert Httle man whose heels I had been follow- 
ing rapidly for the space of two hours. 

" Ten millions of your American dollars," he 
said, as he opened the hinged panel again lead- 
ing to the stage. " And we are paying a good 
dividend at that." ' 

The jewel-box was deserted except for the 
waiters who were laying fresh covers for the 
supper tables that will be in demand after the 
play. So great was the expected demand that 
the little tables overflowed into the foyer. And 
again I 'understood the need of these great 
hotels, anH again the flunkies, again the proces- 
sion entei-ing " to feed again, tho full," to see 
and be seen. They swept in in gay little groups 
to this supper after the play, and again came the 
chatter and the popping of corks and the serving 

of things steaming, sizzling, and savory. Dishes 

109 




Arrangement with W. Thacker A Co., London 



[Drawn l)y Frank Reynolds.] 
TO FEED AGAIN, THO' FULL " 



%lie SfGoude of (^avoi/ 



that were calculated to a minute at dinner were 
now served to the second, with more champagne 
and hearty laughter. Things are really growing 
lively, while matter-of-fact flirtations and confi- 
dences enliven this hasty good cheer. 

Hello ! the lights in the jewel-box have sud- 
denly grown dim. Scores of people have al- 
ready risen to find their wraps. For a brief 
moment the foyer continues to be brilliant in 
light, and then one by one the lights go out. 
The flunkies are busy helping the men with 
their coats, the maids with the cloaks and frou- 
frou of the w^omen. Then, for no evident rea- 
son, the main exit is closed, and a sign is hung 
up which reads : 

" Guests are requested to leave by the Thames 
embankment exit. 

'' (Signed) The London County Council." 

It is after midnight. The hand of the Lon- 
don County Council has faflen as mercilessly as 
the ax of the executioner. 

Silently and without a word of protest they 
go, the millionaire, the adventuress, the diplo- 
mat, the noble lady and her lord, the money- 
lender, and the spendthrift, beauty, wit, and brains, 

all in one common band like a flock of sheep, 

III 



oJn Joondon (5 



own 



" Why is the main entrance closed?" I ask 
an aged veteran in a powdered wig and knee- 
breeches. 

" Well, sir, you see, sir, hit's an old law, sir, 
and the County Council, they won't 'ave it, sir, 
noways. Hit's on account of them wot lives on 
the Strand, shopkeepers and the like, sir. The 
noise of the 'ansoms, sir, is disturbin' to 'em." 

I groped my way to the elevator leading to 
my numbered abode. The curtain had fallen, 
the play of the day was over, and the stage de- 
serted. As I gained the floor supporting my 
numbered domicile a mighty chorus echoed up 
through an open window, and now wild cheering 
reverberated from the court below. " A ban- 
quet to some French gentleman, sir," explained 
the night watchman. 

" Vive I'Angleterre ! Vive la France ! " rang 
out through the chill fog ; then again and again 
the wild chorus singing the '' Marseillaise." 

The entente cordiale had broken loose, and I 
trembled for the slumber of those who lived 
along the Strand. 



112 



CHAPTER V 




CHAPTER V 

ELL is a place 
much like 
London," 
Shelley once 
remarked. If this be 
true, the devil's favor- 
ite highway must be 
Piccadilly. Its charac- 
ter in daylight is as 
staidly respectable as 
that of Dr. Jekyll. At 
night it becomes like 
Hyde, pitiless and 
cruel, sordid and vi- 
cious. Its outcasts tramp 
along its length for prey 
and for prey only. It is 
not because of its charms, 
or allure, or the love of 
light and gaiety, that they 
seek its pavements nightly, but because of hun- 
ger and cold and of dire want that some of the 

115 




Sn .Joondon Oown 



thousands flock to it as a means to an end. 
Some of them have dragged themselves to it 
out of gloomy lodgings a long distance and, 
having reached it, have neither the health nor 
the heart to do much but save their strength for 
a smile and the trudge homeward. Others more 
fortunate, buoyed by good luck, flaunt their 
rouge tinsel and cheap splendor, with a heart of 
jade, hurrying on down muddy marble steps in- 
to sordid bars and out again, their shrewd eyes 
overlooking nothing, their instant perception hav- 
ing been trained to a seventh sense. Still others 
slouch on their vagabond way, keeping to the 
edge of Piccadilly's gutter. Many of these are 
outcasts whose every step leads them deeper 
into the mire of misery, hunger, and rags. They 
have long passed the stage of helping themselves, 
and the most they are able to do is to keep the 
body moving within the rags and out of the 
bobby's way, and, when luck favors, their stom- 
achs warmed by a chance drink and a scrap to 
eat. Shuffling along among them may be seen 
a few grandmothers of those of the younger 
generation who flaunt their nocturnal finery. 
The faces of these grandmothers are wrinkled 

like old apples. Their grimy, shrunken hands 

ii6 



^(:^lie 2)cK^U'd cJiDiqli^^aij 



are horny like the claws of a turkey. The only 
spark of life in these aged wrecks seems still to 
smolder in the secret depths of their bleary, 
wicked eyes. The rest is but skin and bone and 
rags, always rags, the whole animated spasmod- 
ically by the sound of the bobby's voice. 

They are creatures without hope, home, or 
destination. They reason one day as being dif- 
ferent from another solely from the lack or the 
amount of food and drink it has brought, and, 
meager as is the amount, the drink forms the 
larger part of the equation until they stumble or 
reel and fall headlong in the gutter. 

A very old woman stumbling and falling 
bruised and mumbling in the slime is a hideous 
sight, more so when the passing world tramps 
by without giving her a thought, much less a 
helping hand. Thus in her old age she must 
pay the penalty of her days, and at what price ! 
With the rest I grew used to seeing this totter- 
ing grandmother just as I once grew used to 
seeing a bull-fight. She became a tradition ; she 
became no longer a woman, but an object, and 
yet she was once young. It hardly seems possi- 
ble, but it is quite true. The bleary eyes with 

their crafty glint were once the eyes of a child, 

117 



^Iie ^evild &Gtg/iwaij 



then of a sweetheart, then of a mother. Years 
and years slipped by, and with them grew the 
claws and the shrunken apple. The eyes have 
looked out upon, and askance at, the world so 
long" that they have ceased to believe in it, pro- 
test, or criticize. To-morrow the bundle of rags 
may find itself before the bar in Bow Street, and 
the eyes and the grimy claws will try to explain. 
Or they may be engaged busily in a lucky 
chance to rob or even murder, and through it 
all the heart still retains its function, its dogged 
persistency to beat unto the end, and the end is 
not yet. 

Piccadilly at night is a sordid tragedy. In its 
particular sordidness it stands unique among 
the " tenderloins " of the world. 

All this is its night side. It is quite a differ- 
ent street in daylight. Its well-ordered shops 
are filled with well-made things, attractively pre- 
sented in their windows — jewels, beautifully de- 
signed silver, splendid sticks and umbrellas, 
things in leather, excellent in quality and work- 
manship and that still rarer quality, good taste ; 
Scotch homespuns for gentlemen, trinkets in 
gold, old lace and frills for fine ladies, gold-tipped 
and monogramed cigarettes for bachelors; 



c/ai Jj on do II Oown 



smartly cut patent-leather slippers, some with 
racy scarlet heels; heavy shooting-boots for 
solid men, seals and note-paper for formal ac- 
ceptances or regrets; salmon rods, gaily-tied 
flies and reels as carefully balanced as a watch ; 
shops pungent in rare fruit, extravagant bunches 
of hot-house grapes, strawberries, asparagus, and 
pears reared out of season and sold at a fabulous 
price, shops for sleek top-hats and the latest 
things in comfortable ones ; guns for the con- 
noisseur, their gleaming barrels fresh from the 
skilled hand of an expert, the very smoothness 
of their action a joy to the man who knows ; 
rare pictures, etchings, mellow mezzotints, and 
miniatures; Russian sables and French per- 
fumes — all these things shine meritoriously in the 
windows of the celebrated street during the day. 

In the morning Respectability is busy ram- 
bling or shopping. At one o'clock the popular 
and richly installed restaurants and grill-rooms 
are overcrowded with the conservative and a 
sprinkling of the fast set at luncheon. The pol- 
ished grills flare with sizzling kidneys and hon- 
est chops. 

From four until six the legion of tea-rooms 
are packed with families and the well-to-do mid- 




Arrangement with W. Thacker A Co.. London. [Drawn by Frank Reynolds.] 

THE TEA HOUR, PICCADILLY 



cla J^oncloix (5 



oxvn 



die class. They swarm Into the marbled en- 
trances of these establishments and up the mar- 
bled stairs and into the gilded galleries for tea 
and cakes served with music. One might as 
well try to eliminate beer from Munich as tea 
from London. Collectively they remind one 
of a matinee audience from one of our best 
theaters — the mother, the young girl and her 
sweetheart ; the actress and the youth ; refined 
young women in town for a day's shopping; 
Mr. and Mrs. Haberdasher and their four 
healthy daughters; lean Aristocracy in mourn- 
ing with his sister-in-law, she with her black 
purse studded with a sapphire, a thin wedding- 
ring shining upon her white hand as she re- 
moves her gloves; fat Autocracy squinting over 
his teacup at a memorandum-book and jotting 
down a decision for the morrow. Lavish as 
has been the expenditure in installing these tea- 
rooms with gilt and marble and liveried servants, 
their atmosphere is cheap, almost provincial. 

Then night shuts down upon the city. The 
tea-trays are removed. Piccadilly flashes up 
ablaze with electricity. One by one the shops 
close and the great restaurants busy themselves 
with the more serious question of dinner. 



ulie JJeK>it^d ahlg/iwai/ 



As the night darkens Piccadilly Circus, glitters 
in light. Leicester Square glows with halos 
from thousands of incandescents, illumining a 
sea of passing vehicles. Hansoms flash by 
dodging in and out of the vast traffic. A blind- 
ing light from an automobile slowly picking its 
way confronts you. In a second it is gone and 
you regain your vision. The busiest man in this 
labyrinth is the " bobby." He speaks to you, 
now giving you a polite and clear answer to 
your question without taking his eyes from the 
swarming traffic, the next instant he has sprung 
forward to avert a collision. The business of 
the night has begun. It is well that Respecta- 
bility and his family have gone home, for the 
caste for the night's tragedy are already step- 
ping where but an hour ago Respectability 
trod. Dr. Jekyl has drained his drug. Hyde 
and the Devil have assumed command. Until 
thirty minutes after midnight they take advan- 
tage of the opportunity to work hand in hand. 
" Permission " in this sense would be erroneous, 
since in London nothing criminal or vicious is 
allowed by law, but under present conditions 
the Devil has little cause to object. When the 

voice of the law cries '' Halt " at 12 : 30 his work 

123 



Qjn Joondon Oowrt 



has been nicely accomplished, what more an 
the Devil ask? Why spoil a good thing, espe- 
cially in conservative London, where nothing of 
his invention is legally licensed? 

The result is a condition of hypocritical toler- 
ance of dives open at fixed hours and closed 
majestically on the minute, whereupon the 
pavement and the circus of Piccadilly serve as 
standing room for thousands of unfortunates, a 
market-place such as does not exist in Paris and 
would not if it could. There is not much that 
is alluring or attractive about Piccadilly at night. 
This nocturnal center of sordid gaiety reeks with 
that which is purely bad, for it lacks that sole 
redeeming feature, charm ! The types one 
meets are hardened in petty crime, and they are 
for the most part like the "artful dodger," 
skilled pickpockets. They are of all ages and 
all nationalities, the outcasts and the dregs of 
foreign countries. These latter fare badly under 
the majesty of the law. Yet many of them are 
more honest than a like product from White- 
chapel. 

Bad change only too often accompanies bad 

drinks, especially when served to a foreigner, 

even in the foreign quarters, for along the route 

124 



^ke zDevtid a\Dlgli\K>aii 



of the Devil's highway there are, you must know, 
byways leading to the French quarter, a settle- 
ment of no mean proportion with night cafes 
and restaurants imported from Paris, just as 
there are German beer halls beneath restaurants 
of the same extraction and thronged nightly 
with the more fortunate riffraff of the pavement, 
while the cheaper dens flourish beneath impor- 
tant looking bars. In these the plumed lady 
with the rat-like eyes, their brilliancy enhanced 
by rouge and belladonna, engages you in con- 
versation amid the reek of cigarette smoke and 
the tinkle of an orchestra composed of three 
lean- jawed, ex-low comedians provided with two 
mandolins and a banjo. 

Here the waiters are in a hurry to supply as 
many drinks as possible in a given space of 
time. 

One of the low comedians, to all appearances 
the lowest, lays aside his banjo and rises to sing, 
an event among the ladies of the plumes, for he 
i.s evidently a favorite. 

" 'E's clever, 'e is ! " confides a fat girl whose 

grubby hand is planted on the top of a broken 

umbrella handle of imitation pearl. 

In a high-keyed, strident tenor the singer 
125 



c7/i Jhondon Oo 



wn 



launches forth, " Give my Regards to Leicester 
Square." 

Four ItaHan fruit merchants enter, the collars 
of their woolly overcoats turned up. 

They slouch over to a center table and make 
the acquaintance of three hawk-eyed young 
women eager to converse. A sailor on leave 
from a man-of-war has fallen in with a girl at my 
elbow, whose sad gray eyes burn with a brave 
light in them above her hectic cheeks. The 
sailor is kind and sentimental. He places his 
great paw of a hand over her own, the finger-tips 
of which she has a habit of concealing in their 
palms, for her cheap gloves are sadly out at the 
fingers. He tells her about his ship, and much 
about his daily life, about the breech action of 
their best thirteen-inch gun. The girl can not 
understand all he tries to explain, but she seems 
to grow a little happier as he talks. There is 
something respectful in his unsteady conversa- 
tion which pleases her, and she tells him in return 
of a week she once spent in the country as slavey 
to " a master-weaver's folks near Manchester." 

Again the refrain " Give my Regards to the 

Square " ; the roomful join in the chorus ; a 

floating veil of tobacco smoke hangs over the 

126 



squalid groups at the little tables, and the 
plumed ladies continue to descend the steps to 
glance about and exit by another marble flight 
leading to the street. A minstrel enters, one 
who has seen better days on the sands of 
Brighton. The burnt cork smeared upon his 
face is in odd contrast to his tawny hair streaked 
with gray ; a hat that would have fitted a doll is 
secured by an elastic and cocked over one ear. 
He comes in from the chill street, smiling and 
bowing " Sorry to intrude," and receives a 
nodded, sullen greeting from the orchestra. The 
girl, from the spare change the sailor has given 
her, slips "tuppence" into the old minstrel's 
hand as he edges apologetically past her chair, 
and the banana merchants buy him a drink at 
the end of his song. Somehow you feel like giv- 
ing all the spare change you ever possessed to 
the wretched and unfortunate ones about you. 
The lime of the street has chilled you, and the 
things you have seen have set you thinking, you 
with your cozy salon, your mosaicked bathroom, 
clean things, a cheery fire, friends, and a favorite 
book and pipe awaiting you. 

And they? These nocturnal outcasts, what 

is their lot and destination when the night is 

127 



Sn Joondon 6 



own 



done? Debts and the friendless, fireless room 
they call " 'ome," a room that knows not love or 
honesty, behind whose silent door no voice of 
mate, of child, or mother ever calls a cheery 
welcome, and whose occupant, be she ill or des- 
perate or hungry, must look sharp to keep out 
of the hands of the sheriff or the jail. Few de- 
serve either if the whole truth were known. 
The bobby in his honest heart knows this and 
is many a time their best friend. It is London 
law which is responsible for most of its unli- 
censed horrors. To-morrow it may occur to 
some opulent lord to propose a bill that may in 
the course of time help the existing conditions. 
But in London reforms of this tendency take 
root slowly, and old laws remain unchanged for 
generations. 

Unlike our New York dives, built and fur- 
nished hastily to survive through the harvest- 
time of a wide-open town, London's marbled 
and gilded resorts have been built to last. Even 
the leather chairs in the various night lounges 
preserve a worn polish like the bindings of 
unexpurgated editions. 

An undisputed authority says, speaking of the 
present state of affairs, that ** in London there 



128 



olie Jjevit d oiDtglii^aij 



are one hundred and twenty-nine thousand reg- 
istered paupers and one milHon five hundred 
thousand persons that are practically starving. 
There is also a vast population that crawls about 
in subcellars and filth and misery unutterable. 
In every English city one-fifth of the inhabi- 
tants never know what it is to have enough to 
eat, never sleep in a decent bed, never know 
wealth nor decency nor comfort " ; further- 
more, that " there is a steady increase in the 
ranks of paupers, the starving, the degenerate, 
the brutish, and the prowling and slinking crea- 
tures of the East End," and he further adds that 
" these are the awful menaces and retribution of 
a system of civilization that must have in it 
something radically wrong." 

What London needs is work for its army of 
unemployed. Charitable donations and the 
generosity of the individual do but little mo- 
mentary good, and effect nothing toward a radi- 
cal betterment of the situation. Were it not for 
the good work done by the Salvation Army 
shelters and soup stations, thousands of out- 
casts would die of exposure and starvation. 

There are few men who have made a more 

exhaustive study of London's outcasts than Mr. 
9 129 



c7/i Jo on don Oow 



n 



George R. Sims ; his philanthropic enterprise in 
giving these unemployed work has the advan- 
tage of being a practical scheme developed by a 
man who has been personally indefatigable in 
knowing the poor and their needs. 

The night is still young when I leave and 
gain the street by way of the muddy marble 
steps There are dozens of dens along Picca- 
dilly's highway and its byways of the same class, 
and there are those which are more palatial, less 
smoky, but quite as crowded with the flotsam of 
the town. The Cafe Europe, flaunting its 
brazen front upon a conspicuous corner, is a 
dingy caravansary with marble-topped tables, 
supplied with an assortment of rouged women 
of every Continental nationality. It is quite an 
important place, this Cafe Europe, the most im- 
portant rendezvous of the jetsam of Leicester 
Square and " the Halls" ; and its big room below 
stairs is not large enough to cope with its 
clientele. It was here that I found a va- 
cant seat in a drafty corner and refilled my 
pipe. Suddenly a woman in a seat behind me 
addressed me in French. Getting no response, 
she essayed English, then Italian, then German, 
then Hungarian. 

130 



(jlie zDevltd cADigliwaij 



'* English will do," I replied as I turned and 
found myself in the presence of a thick-set 
ogress in a vermilion hat. She smiled, that is, 
her mouth widened maliciously beneath her 
hooked nose, and she lifted the lids of two steel- 
gray eyes. She knew pre- 
cisely the type she was address- 
ing. Her fifty years had 
provided her with a knowl- 
edge of human nature that a 
chief of a detective bureau 
would have envied. This 
ogress grew interesting. She 
could have adapted her con- 
versation, I believe, as easily 
to a cannibal, a Chinaman, 
a vicar, or a murderer. She knew the world at 
large. There was hardly a city of any impor- 
tance that she did not know as well as the 
interior of her gaudy pocket-book. Singapore, 
New York, Tokyo, Paris, Budapest, and Daw- 
son City were as familiar to the ogress as Main 
Street to a village mayor. Behind that mask of 
smile was a heart as criminal as Fagin's, and 
beneath the vermilion hat lay a brain, which but 
for its cool and clever reasoning and its ability 

131 




Qjn Joondon Oo 



wit 



to deceive, would long since have gone with the 
rest of the ogress to the gallows. 

To-night, like to-morrow night and the night 
after, she sits amid the reek of smoke and the 
din of the town, watching as patiently as a leop- 
ard for her prey, careful neither to repulse nor 
frighten her quarry, alert to catch instantly the 
mood of the stranger, and here they are all 
strangers to the ogress. The short, silent man 
with the stubby black mustache who is sitting 
alone over a beer she eliminates from her gaze. 
She has too clear a recollection of him once in 
Brussels, whither his chief at Scotland Yard had 
despatched him in the spring of '8i. She re- 
calls too his breaking in a door, ker door, behind 
which were four carefully chosen acquaintances 
busily molding bright English coinage. That 
was years ago and the affair is over. It was that 
quick brain of hers which saved her at the time. 
Again in a hotel robbery in Nice in which the 
ogress was largely interested, the man with the 
stubby black mustache followed her so closely 
that she was unfortunately obliged to leave the 
Riviera during the height of the season and 
open an absinthe " buvette " for " camelots," ven- 
ders of cheap novelties who hawk their wares in 

132 



(jlie JjevWd &Gl^(j/iivaij 



front of the Parisian cafes. Here, in her own 
buvette, they would have murdered her one 
night for the contents of her till, had she not 
foreseen it in time and slipped out into the cool 
night air. 

Now she is in London, her identity forgotten 
among so many others of her kind. 

A man at the farther end of the room has paid 
for his drink and risen to go. As he trips up 
the steps, the one with the stubby black mus- 
tache follows him slowly, relighting the stump 
of his cigar. 

And in the eyes of the ogress there flashes a 
glint of satisfaction. 

The waiter is at my elbow. I deposit in his 
fat palm a sovereign in payment for the ogress's 
hot glass of milk and my own refreshment. He 
spreads my change on the table as I bid the 
ogress good night. 

" A shilling would help me with my cab fare," 
she ventures coolly. I nod my assent, and she 
picks one out of the change. She asks for no 
more, no less. It seems strange, but as I have 
inferred, the ogress is tactful, even discreet. 
The remainder of my change, I discover later, has 
lost its accustomed ring, the only silver shilling 

^33 



Qja Jhondon Oox^vi 



in the amount being now in the Hzard-skin 
portemonnaie of the one in the vermiHon hat. 

As I pass out I see the waiter is taking an 
order from a tall miner from the Transvaal with 
whom the ogress is laughing boisterously. 
Later, he may be advertising for his diamond- 
studded watch and trying to remember what he 
spent. 

And now the crowd pours forth from the 
music-halls, the Alhambra, the PaviHon, and 
that most brilHant of all, the Empire. The 
street echoes with the hoars a cries of uniformed 
officials calling up the waiting vehicles, their 
whistles sounding in the fog like the weird an- 
swering notes of tree-toads. 

Thousands are pouring from the theaters out 
upon the already crowded pavement with its 
nightly procession of painted women and slouch- 
ing outcasts. The numerous supper-rooms are 
being quickly filled. There is still time before 
1 2 : 30 to rush through something to eat. 

These supper-rooms are of every variety, from 
the most fashionable ones like the " Criterion," 
^' Princess," and the " Trocadero " to the coarser 
kind, "Monaco's," or well-fitted mundane re- 
sorts like "Scott's." 

134 



olie Jjevtid ^Gig/iway 



Unfortunately some difficulty with the au- 
thorities has closed for the moment that gilded 
resort frequented by the younger blood and the 
smartest of the demi-monde, and known under 
the title of " Jimmy's " ; were it not for this un- 
fortunate raid one might sup there. 

But the street is infinitely more full of human 
interests than any of its adjacent interiors. If 
the night be clear, there is a certain veneer of 
light and gaiety even in the sordid procession, 
but when it storms there is a certain grim hor- 
ror about this Devil's highway ; nights when the 
unfortunate seeks gladly the shelter of a friendly 
doorway or the hooded entrance of the now 
darkened theaters; nights when the tottering 
grandmothers stumble on down Piccadilly in the 
drip ; nights when those whose heart has long 
ago been broken give up hope and suffer mutely. 
Hundreds of them stand thus at this hour in the 
rain, thousands if it be clear and in early spring 
or summer, when the area of Piccadilly Circus 
becomes a market, a pen of humanity which does 
not disperse until the last moment prescribed by 
the law, a sight that happily does not exist any- 
where else in the world, except in conservative 
London. To it the Parisian boulevards at night, 

^35 



Qjn Joondon Oown 



thronged with every class of stranger and Pari- 
sian, gay with the crowded cafe terraces past 
which file the world and his wife, appear in 
contrast like a fairyland. 

Piccadilly knows neither gaiety nor charm. 
It was during this late last hour that my hansom 
clattered up into Piccadilly Circus packed with 
its sea of wretched humanity. 

Suddenly the wheel from a passing growler 
became tangled with that of my hansom. A 
sound of cracking wood and a rush from all 
sides to see the collision followed, and while my 
driver busied himself wath his opinion of the 
director of the offending growler, two coster 
girls beside the broken wheel flew at each other 
like game chickens. There is no use trying to 
print what they said. Suffice it to say that their 
opinion of each other was chosen and convin- 
cing, and was rich in the patois of Billingsgate. 
In a second their respective husbands appeared 
upon the scene of battle and expressed their own 
views as to who was in the wrong. The very 
stones rocked with language. 

The next instant the bobbies were breaking 

their way through the crowd. They settled the 

costers and their better halves, and turned to 

136 




[Drawn by Frank Reynolds] 
THE EAST END OR MAULEY KISS. 



Qjri Jooncloa Oown 



the subject of the colHsion. They wanted to 
know the facts and pulled forth their note-books, 
begging my pardon for disturbing me, "but 
we'd like to know, sir, the facts; name, sir, and 
address." 

The crowd surged, the drivers swore, and 
amid the bedlam of " Ould yer row!" " Blimy 
if the bloke isn't goin' to stop 'ere all night," I 
sat in my no doubt offending hansom in silence. 
I w^as not eager to appear as a witness. I know 
of better places than a London police court in 
the early morning, so I assumed the role of a 
sphinx and sat staring over the sea of humanity 
jeering at my red-faced cabby, whose flow of ex- 
planation would have convinced anything but a 
London bobby of his innocence. 

Again the two stalwart policemen questioned 
me for the truth. This time they sharply 
demanded it. There was no alternative; my 
view as an eye-witness to the accident was re- 
quired, and without further delay. To block 
Piccadilly Circus at that hour in the morning is 
a serious affair, and blocked it was, and every one 
seemed to be talking at once. 

Then, remembering the entente cordiale, I 

shrugged mv shoulders and with an extravagant 

138 



^Iie zDe\nt' d cf&t^/inmi/ 



gesture and some hesitancy saluted the two 
giants in blue. 

*' Messieurs," I began, " je regrette infiniment, 
mais je ne parle pas Anglais." 

" Pass on ! " thundered the majesty of the law, 
and the crowd fell back, my red-faced cabby 
chuckling to himself as we moved out of that 
sea of misery and struck off at a sharp pace 
toward Leicester Square. Not a light now 
gleamed forth along the Devil's highway, not a 
spark from restaurant or bar. 

The darkened buildings loomed up as if from 
a deserted marsh. A church bell sounded the 
half-hour. The night's work was done. Even 
the Devil has gone to bed. As we turned a 
corner the light from my cabby's lanterns glowed 
in passing upon a bundle of shuffling rags, shaken 
with a cough — a grandmother waiting for dawn. 



139 



CHAPTER VI 



://! yy/iic/i g7 CD d cape and am 
Gaptuted 



CHAPTER VI 



oJa wlilck cJ (s>dcape and am 
(japtwced 

O-MORROW London will be 
under the pall of another 
Sunday. Two concerts will 
be given, one at Queen's, the 
other at Albert Hall. People will 
be heard with squeaky shoes upon 
the silent pavements. No theater 
will be open. A Parisian Sunday 
is the fete day of the week, a day 
when you dine " au restaurant " and 
go in a friendly mood to the play, 
a night when the audience is made up of chic 
Parisiennes mixed with the plain bourgeois to 
whom the day is a restful holiday. The foyers 
then between the acts are filled with these com- 
fortable families. The fat mama is in her 
best black silk, and her daughters more attrac- 
tive in their Sunday best; the young soldier 

143 




Sn Joondoti Oo 



wit 



son is on leave from the caserne, and the jolly 
papa worries about nothing. All these are 
mingled in the throng with pretty women 
whose charm and grace are due to their view 
of life and their Latin blood. The Parisian 
Sunday sends us home to begin another week 
after some subtle and witty play, congratulating 
ourselves that we live where we do. It is your 
charm, Paris, which has lured the world within 
your gates, and many of us never regret having 
entered them. 

But I am getting homesick and I diverge. 

How and where to make one's escape on the 

morrow? that is the question. Why not to 

Brighton? '' It is ^/le place to run down to on 

Sunday." They are apt to confide this to you 

soUo voce and wink in further explanation. It 

is a gay crowd who run down to this seaside 

Mecca Sundays. The train, I am told, will be 

full of gaiety girls and people of leisure in smart 

togs. " Of course if you go, old chap," imparts 

to me another, " you'll lunch at the Metropole. 

It will be packed, and you'd better book your 

seat in the train and your table for luncheon in 

advance. You'll see everybody there Sundays. 

They run down in automobiles too. If they're 

144 



c?dcape and Gaptute 



not all engaged for the morning, you'd better 
see about yours at once. They're apt to give 
you some wretched old thing that crawls if you 
come late and find all the good ones gone. 
But there'll be a jolly enough crowd on the train 
if you wish to take that. It leaves at a comfort- 
able hour and rushes you down there with no 
stops and in time for luncheon." 

Mademoiselle has donned a cAic red hat and a 
confection of a traveling-gown, having accepted 
in a carefully written little note with " tout 
mon coeur." It has been a dreadful week in 
this solid, grim, and foggy city. It was an ex- 
cellent idea, this running down to Brighton. 
We shall be clear of the fog and the two Sunday 
concerts at any rate. Mademoiselle is radiant. 

" Ecoutez, quelle ville ! " she confides to you 
dramatically. " Quelle ville ! Mon Dieu ! mais 
c'est triste, vous savez. Si je reste a ce Lon- 
dres je vais mourir. Surement ! " 

We decide to take the express ; it is cheaper 
than the gasolene habit. What a morning! 
The fog has lifted and the sun at last is pouring 
over the town. The yellow Thames has become 
opalescent, gleaming in dancing facets of light. 
A faint haze softens the massive buildings. 

145 



oJa Joondoa 60 



wn 



With the advent of the sun London assumes a 
silent holiday air. The people along the street 
at least look happier, but the streets themselves 
with their absent traffic are as silent as the 
great river. The smoke-begrimed buildings, now 
that they no longer stand grimly up under the 
drenching blanket of fog, have regained a better 
mien. As we rumble on to the station in the 
sunshine of this silent Sun- 
day morning, a sudden burst 
of music strikes the ear, and 
a company of scarlet-coated 
soldiers swings into view as 
we pass Buckingham Palace. 
On they march, past our 
hansom — bare-legged High- 
landers and giants in enor- 
mous beavers. They are a 
thrilling lot of real soldiers. 
Many of these red-coats are 
healthy-looking young chaps, 
slim, tall, with fresh com- 
plexions, passing with a 
swinging stride, wearing 
tlicir pill-box caps cocked over one ear and 

carrying their light riding-whips, an absurd 

146 




(hdcape anJ (japtute 



little affair which, I assume, is more for looks 
than for use. 

One is struck with the trim, healthy cleanli- 
ness of these soldiers. They march with a virile 
active step. They look like men trained and 
bred to fight, and as they file past in the sun 
they appear in the pink of condition. They 
stand out in odd contrast to the French. The 
slovenly little piou-piou, with his dusty red 
trousers and gaiters, serving his time, is gener- 
ally undersized. He seems to be playing at 
soldier against his will. It is not a pleasant 
business to him. He looks forward to earning 
his freedom from his military service, when he 
will be enabled to marry for a dot and become 
the genial proprietor of a cafe and have his 
vine and fig-tree in the country, beneath which 
he can spend his old age with his good Annette. 

On marches the brilliant little procession of 
red-coats. In the mean time we watch them 
from the front row of our hansom, for the bobby 
has called a serious halt to our journey. What 
if we missed the train ! It is getting dangerously 
near the time of its departure for Brighton. 
But the bobby is adamant. The British soldier 
has the right of way. 

147 



c7/i Jhondoii O' 



own 



" Quelle heure est il? " gasps Mademoiselle. 

" We have eleven minutes left," I am obliged 
to confess. 

On file the red-coats. What if we arrive to 
find the gates leading to the seaside paradise 
closed ! Mademoiselle is getting nervous. Ah ! 
*'C'est embetant!" she cries, with an impa- 
tient little quaver in her voice. Three minutes 
gone, and still the red-coats in view. 

Ah, at last ! the end. We are free and the 
good sound horse is doing his best. Seven min- 
utes later we are aboard the crowded express, 
and again Mademoiselle becomes happy. Here, 
too, were the gaiety girls and many people of 
leisure. We were lucky to get seats, two at one 
of the little green smoking-tables in the rear car. 
Of course, it was evidently the thing to do to 
run to Brighton. 

*' Ah, c'est chic ! " cried Mademoiselle, as her 
quick eye caught sight of the world and his wife 
about us. 

Here is a i^imous danseuse from the Alhambra 

with two young bloods in immaculate clothes ; 

there a ruddy old don vivant in spats with two 

English beauties; the rest were club men and 

idle youths, jolly, healthy-looking fellows. 

148 



c 



7/1 Joondon Oown 



Matches were struck, cigarettes and cigars 
lighted, whiskies and sodas sparkled on the little 
green tables. Then suddenly the hum of gen- 
eral conversation subsided. We were off to the 
sea. The men read the morning papers and 
puffed in silence, speaking in monosyllables now 
and then to their fair companions, who seemed 
quite used to passing the journey thus in silence. 
r-In France such a trainful would have re- 
niained gay from the beginning of the journey 
to the end. Laughter and gaiety and badi- 
nage would have enlivened every mile. All 
would have enjoyed themselves to the full, for 
to the French such a jolly little voyage would 
have been taken en fete. But here was a differ- 
ent state of affairs. Most of the voyageurs 
looked bored. They were content to smoke and 
read the morning's news, breaking the monot- 
ony now and then by a fresh cigarette. Even 
the children with their blase mamas and papas 
were silent. Here and there along the sunny 
roads we catch a glimpse of an auto en route to 
Brighton filled with some jolly party who have 
been wise enough to escape from the silent 
city. These automobiles run at a sensible speed. 

In Trance the automobile has become a pest. 

150 



Sdcape and (japtute 



Tearing, ripping juggernauts that endanger life 
along the highroads, kill people even in the 
village streets, cover the hedges with dust, and 
making riding and driving impossible. Heed- 
less of warning signs they rush through little vil- 
lages such as Dives, on the way to Trouville, at 
top speed night or day. They have practically 
ruined many a charming French country place. 
The Frenchman is somewhat of a maniac in 
sport. He goes in it for sensation. 

It was gratifying to see these English machines 
running along merrily and at so sane a speed. 
The dare-devil pace which one sees in France 
does not seem to exist here. That speed at 
which the occupants of a big tonneau must dis- 
guise themselves as arctic explorers and to 
whom trees, country, sky, river, and field appear 
as a blur, has no attraction for this solid race, a 
race which produces more keen sportsmen, bet- 
ter riders, and surer field shots than perhaps any 
other nation in the world. 

The Frenchman mingles too much romance 
with his sport to be on the average a safe shoot- 
ing companion. During his frequent day dreams 
he may as likely as not blow off the top of your 
head while dreaming of Ninette. 

151 



Qjti Joondoa (Down 



" Les chasseurs en France sont des poseurs," 
agrees Mademoiselle. 

There are strict laws as regards the speed of 
automobiles in England. " There's been an 
awful outraw about 'em ! " declared the little 
spinster barmaid to me. 

And now the contents of the smoking-car has 
risen to its feet, for we are rolling into Brighton. 
Under the shed of the big station scores of car- 
riages are waiting to receive the chappies, the 
gaiety girls, and the seasoned idlers. 

Brighton is a hilly town of considerable area. 
Its main street runs down-hill from the station 
to the sea, and there are narrow steep little 
streets branching from it. Along the main hill 
leading to the sea-front and the big hotels and 
apartments are little shops choked with every 
conceivable kind of trash — sea-shell mirrors and 
souvenirs in mother-of-pearl, molasses candy of 
great age, and cheap postal cards. There is ro 
getting away from the fact that it is still Sunday, 
for the main street, now that the contents of the 
train has passed, is as dead as a suburb of Phila- 
delphia- Every public saloon has its dcors 
locked, some to reopen only at stated hours 

when they will endeavor to make up for the loss 

152 



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i i:: -^ai:: ^ ^ t^- ^^i5i^i:« 


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ffik-i" ^ 


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ftt-! 




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c7/i Jo on don Oown 



of trade during church time. Only the sea-front 
with its broad promenade and its big hotels is 
alive, and this animation is mild, I can assure 
you. Nurse-maids and children, holiday trippers, 
old and young ladies taking the air in wheeled 
carriages, a cross between a baby's perambulator 
and Mother Goose's shoe on wheels, dandies and 
fussy old gentlemen, flirting misses discreetly 
followed by gawky youths, all these go to make 
up the thousands w^ho promenade in comparative 
silence. Verily the English take their pleasures 
grimly. 

Against the masonry skirting this promenade 
the yellow sea swashes, combing under the long 
iron pier with a concert-hall at its extreme end. 
A few slot machines enliven this pier, and there 
are convenient benches running along its spine, 
with here and there a pair of giggling lovers sit- 
ting as far away from the other couple as possi- 
ble and in the most obscure and least windy 
corners of this generous settee. 

Completing the list of attractions along the 
pier is a camera-obscura. This is a darkened 
box of an affair presided over by a wheezy 
old man, who lectures feebly upon the canvas 
disk reflecting the sea, sky, and the prome- 

154 



Sdcape and (baptute 

naders, "hall, sir, in their natural colors, as 
you hobserve." Occasionally one is forced 
to observe upon its magic surface the gestures 
of the whispered and tender endearments of the 
lovers hidden in their windy bower of bliss. 
They are much like the silly ostrich who buried 
its head in the sand to escape from the public 
gaze. 

The steps of the Metropole are crowded wdth 
the people who have come in auto or by train. 
The air is of a peculiar softness, blowing, as it 
does, straight off the sea. Those who have found 
arm-chairs on the steps are chatting and watch- 
ing the arrivals. The corridors within are also 
crowded. Here the air is heavy with perfume, 
and the women seem much overdressed. It is 
an hour in which to be seen and to gaze one's fill 
at one's neighbor. It is fortunate that we have 
ordered a table. Three large dining-rooms, sol- 
emn and ornate, are not enough to accommo- 
date those who have been lured upon this fas- 
cinating excursion. Within these spacious 
sa/ks a manger a sea of people are at luncheon. 
It is a strange throng, composed of large con- 
servative families occupying the big tables, 
and the demi-monde the little ones. Nowhere 

155 



Sn Joondon (Down 



have I seen more children lunching with their 
elders, and they are pretty children too, quiet 
and well-bred, with complexions like roses. At 
three separate tables are families counting six 
and even seven fair-haired young daughters, 
very tall for their age, slim and straight as 
young willows, and each possessing a neat 
sailor hat ; a little beyond is a gracious-looking 
mother, a white-haired father, and five Httle 
girls so much alike in their sailor hats and sailor 
suits that, were it not for their slightly varying 
heights, one could not tell them apart. 

It is a delight to see these fresh English chil- 
dren. There is a certain healthy dignity about 
them and an absence of artificiality which is 
charming. I know some American babies who 
cultivate the airs of duchesses. It is a question 
whether a child whose earthly possessions mount 
up into the millions has not the right to culti- 
vate any air it likes. Dry goods and pork can 
produce some wonderful creations and a domi- 
nating independence which is amazing. I have 
known personally despotic tots of five who 
refuse to drive in anything less than the family 
brougham. It was restful to watch these Eng- 
lish children. They seemed to spring up like 

156 




Arrangement with W. Thacker & Co., London. 

[Drawn by Frank Reynolds.] 
AT BRIGHTON 
The "Lady-Killer" 



g//i Jo ado II (d, 



own 



roses in this hot-bed of hardened humanity at 
luncheon. They lent innocence and purity to 
a scene where so many thorny old trees had 
grown crooked and gnarled in life, seasoned, 
seamed, and smoked in the ways of the world, 
and among whom was a more than goodly ma- 
jority of Saturday worshipers with Rhine-wine 
names. Even their English accent does not 
disguise their ancient blood. It is they who are 
so ever-ready to lend. Their power is indis- 
putable. In London they have become a neces- 
sity, silent partners of great enterprises, builders 
of giant structures, the patchers-up of family 
leaks. They are past masters in the profitable 
industry of lending gold. They hold within the 
hollow of their cold palms the life-blood of gen- 
erations of those who live not wisely but too well. 
Their obsequious benefaction has risen to such 
power that it has enslaved a vast portion of the 
richest city in the world and brought to their 
doors much of its aristocracy, hat in hand, to 
ask a favor. 

The palm-room after luncheon becomes ani- 
mated, for it is the custom to smoke here and 
have one's coffee. 

Little parties are already chatting in the 
158 



Sdcape anci Gaptute 



wicker chairs. Among the cool, green palms 
are cages of singing birds, and the long room 
looks out upon a solid vine-covered and terraced 
court. 

The crowded conservatory becomes smoky, 




ALONG THE PROMENADE. 



the birds twitter above the bubble of conversa- 
tion. Mademoiselle, being a Parisienne, becomes 
an object of interest. Her cAzc red hat and her 
trim costume are regarded in detail by the 

159 



Qjti Jhoncloix (Down 



women, and the men, in passing, absently focus 
their monocles upon her merry eyes. 

" Bah ! they are stupid, these messieurs," she 
remarks. " They are so unemotional, so solemn, 
so unromantic ! Come," she adds, " it is so 
smoky here, let us take the air." 

Again to the sea-front, but it has blown up 
colder, and the streaming black crowd prome- 
nading along the quay has thinned considerably. 
In the throng are two dlase youths walking and 
chatting by the side of one of the perambulators 
wherein they have just tucked a pretty young 
woman very smart in her jewels and sables, 
and almost doll-like in her wheeled carriage. 

Farther on a crowd has gathered against the 
iron rail. Below them on the sand Brother 
Brown is about to preach. Brother Brown is 
an earnest-looking negro in a top hat and 
funereal gloves. His lieutenant, Brother Jones, 
a tall, solemn-looking negro, is standing respect- 
fully back of Brother Brown, and leaning upon 
his umbrella while he listens intently with head 
on side. Both have been singing a hymn. 
Brother Jones's bass voice bellowing ably. And 
now Brother Brown lays his umbrella at his feet, 

removes one cotton glove, and, producing the 

1 60 



c?dcape and (oaptuze 



good Book, launches forth upon his text. It is 
a short text, but Brother Brown dwells at length 
upon the true meaning of the minutest word 
contained therein, while Brother Jones gazes at 
the now darkening sky and shifts to the other 
leg during pauses. The assembled multi- 
tude listens in silence. Some persons have 
stopped out of curiosity. The uninterested 
keep on moving, but no one disturbs the 
speaker. 

Farther on a voice has broken out on the salt 
air, the voice of a hatless, black-eyed young man. 
He is expounding in his own fashion the labor 
question. At times he is not very clear, but he 
is always vociferous. Most of his statements he 
retracts, apologizing for his lack of the pre- 
cise statistics. " However," he cries, '' you may 
judge for yourselves," and rushes again into a 
tirade against capital. If you are a judge of 
criminology, you may observe that one-half of 
the speaker's face is abnormal, a drooping, shifty 
eye and a cruel jaw. The other half is that of a 
youthful fanatic. 

It is not gay, this beach of Brighton. Gloomy- 
looking quadrangles flanked by expensive apart- 
ments look out to sea. Refined people spend 
n i6i 



Qjn Joondon Oown 



weeks at Brighton, but in quiet, gray streets 
away from the throng. 

The air has grown chilly, and the dreary yel- 
low sea seethes beneath the pier swashing against 
the masonry protecting the town. Again we 
seek the shop windows as a distraction before 
the express shall take us back to London. The 
well-seasoned molasses candy and the sea-shell 
and mother-of-pearl souvenirs all are there and 
in their accustomed places. 

Ah ! here is one we have not seen. A little 
terra-cotta sailor smoking a pipe. 

"C'est joli, ce petit bonhomme la!" cries 
Mademoiselle with an effort. Poor little Pari- 
sienne, have you ever had a worse fete day in 
your life ? You are chilled and homesick. You 
do not understand this Brighton Sabbath. It is 
better that we take the train back to London. 
Come, we shall have a chat alone in your favor- 
ite seat before it becomes crowded, and we will 
play we are a jolly party going to Saint-Ger- 
main, and that Mimi and Santelle are with us, 
and Fran9ois, and that good-for-nothing Gaston 
who brings for a picnic the bad wine of Madame 
Gouven and nothing else except his worthless 

jolly self. That good-for-nothing fellow who 

162 



p 
ijdcape an 



d Gaptu 



te 



will tell you that no one since Botticelli has 
known how to paint, and expects you to be- 
lieve it. 

The train roared on — she was tired, and pres- 
ently, wdth a little sigh, she fell asleep. The car 
itself was silent save for the snap of playing- 
cards and the occasional pop of a fresh soda. 




163 



CHAPTER VII 



ezc anJ (jliete 



CHAPTER VII 



cfoete an 



d '15 h 



lete 




T 



HE ^-lellow 'bus stopped 
to take on a passenger. 
He was a fat, choleric 
old gentleman who 
had hailed it from afar 
and was now waving his um- 
brella wildly at the driver next 
to whom I was seated, and 
spattering his gaiters in the 
mud as he ran. The genial 
old driver waited for him; he 
had seen old gentlemen run 
before. So did the little cock- 
ney conductor at the bottom of 
the narrow stairs, hand on bell 
and now ushering in the wind- 
ed old gentleman to a seat inside. The horses 
tightened their traces, and we went swinging 
in the tide of London. And I recalled 

,67 



on 



Sn Joondon (Down 



that inimitable drawing of Charles Keane's, 
of just such an excited and testy old gentle- 
man who, seated reading upon a bench in St. 
James's Park, sees his approaching 'bus on the 
other side of the high iron railing and the only 
exit yards away. " Hi, there ! " he shouts, fran- 
tically waving his umbrella. "Hi, there!" he 
bellows. " Don't worry, guv'ner," calls the driver, 
" we see yer, we see yer with the naked eye." 

It was this kind of a 'bus driver I was sitting 
next to this morning as we rumbled along the 
bottom of that granite cafion, Fleet Street. 
Up on its dripping sides I catch a glimpse of 
some lighted office window, and the clock far 
up on the Law Courts appeared like a yellow 
moon. All around me, hurrying through the 
fog-swept canon, swarms a never-ending stream 
of humanity, dodging each other like ants, some 
leaving the main stream to run into gloomy 
alleys. One rushing ant, having patiently 
dodged his way up to the corner of a transverse 
slit in the canon, penetrates a blind alley, real- 
izes his mistake, dodges back to the main stream 
and keeps doggedly on his way. These ants 
are of every class and condition. Hundreds of 
them find their way up rickety dark stairs into 



1 68 



uioete and u/iete 



gloomy low-ceiled offices and out again. Their 
movement is silent and incessant, impressive in 
its compact magnitude. In many of the can- 
on's crevasses are decrepit old courts, black- 
ened doorways, cat walks, dreary houses leaning 
in mutual support, with smoking chimney-pots 
and dust-grimed windows back of which slaves 
more ant-like activity. Out of these wretched 
offices and lofts pours the product of literature, 
art, and science, rare books, all-powerful news- 
papers, conceived and printed in the innermost 
regions of these rat-holes, the composite parts 
of herculean machinery, the output of great en- 
terprises. 

Fleet Street is essentially the home of the 
publishing world. Many of these publishers, 
and famous ones at that, are still plying their 
trade in humble offices, tucked away in grimy 
courts and darkened alleys, interiors which have 
not changed a whit since Dickens described 
them. 

A soggy flight of worn stairs, a creaking en- 
trance door, a box behind choked with printed 
matter, a drafty window of inquiry, a loft some- 
where to store the remainder of the debris, and 

the publisher's private office, ill-lit by little 

169 



Sn Jo>ondon uoivn 



sunken windows and warmed by an old-fashioned 
hob-grate fire, sending its desultory light wan- 
dering over the low ceiling and upon shelves 
and into corners which the artful spider has long 
since covered with her veil. Such is the interior. 

And yet the Londoner is shrewder at business 
than we are, I am told. His pace is slower, 
more methodical and conservative. He takes 
longer to give a decision than we do, but when 
it is given it has been solidly and shrewdly 
thought out. In one case in the publishing 
world five successive able American managers 
failed to give satisfaction. They are clever 
business men, these solid Londoners, and com- 
petition here is of the keenest. Even my jolly 
old driver has felt it, for his skilful and responsi- 
ble position was not easily attained. He was 
selected, he tells me, after a rigorous examina- 
tion as to character and his knowledge of driving 
and horses. 

For this examination an inspector takes out 

on a trial 'bus some twenty applicants at a time, 

when each is given a distance in the crowded 

traffic to prove his presence of mind, his fitness, 

and his skill.- "You've got to 'ave nerve and 

think quick," declares my driver. 

170 



oioete and oliete 



Time after time as we rumbled and swayed 
easily along in the sea of traffic only his quick 
decision and his trained knowledge of the dif- 
ferent types of vehicles and their drivers about 
us avoided a smash-up. The ease with which 
he handled the reins was amazing, and all the 
time he kept up his good-humored talk. 

"Newgate, sir!" he remarked, nodding to a 
gloomy street to the right. " They used to 
'ang 'em in that street," and he chirped to his 
horses. 

" Ye see, sir," speaking of Holborn, " only a 
little while ago it was a deep dip of a hill. They 
leveled it lately, about thirty-five year ago." 

" Excuse me, sir," he said, as he finished a 
short chat with the lady on his left and explained 
to me the fact that the little woman who had 
been chatting with him was a " lydy of quality." 

" Why, she's rich, she is, an' drives 'er own 
'osses. Think of a lydy beneathin' herself by 
speakin' to a 'bus driver! Why there's some 
that wouldn't open their 'ed, them wot's livin' 
in the West Hend." 

By this time we had reached the Bank of 
England. Nothing can be more suggestive of 
solidity than this low, gray mass of stone. It 

171 



Qjn Joondoii & 



own 



stands there in its massive simplicity, the richest 
safe in the world. 

It was noon and Broad Street was alive with 
hatless clerks strolling over to favorite and rea- 
sonable snuggeries for luncheon. Hundreds of 
well-groomed young men filled this London 
Wall Street. Fat bondholders and financiers 
were getting into their coupes or automobiles, 
and, mingled in the throng, were hurrying 
trusted servants in plum-colored liveries and 
top hats. The fog had lifted and the warm 
sun glistened against the drenched buildings. 
London is a city of light and shade, mostly 
shade. 

I climbed down from the yellow 'bus and went 
in search of luncheon, rambling back until I 
chanced upon the name my genial driver had 
given me. It had been designated as a restau- 
rant, back of St. Paul's. This I discovered to 
be a busy fish-market one hundred years old, 
with its open windows glistening with evil-eyed 
lobsters, giant crabs, green turtles, salmon, tur- 
bot, and sole. Over its sanded floor worked a 
staff of white-aproned clerks busy with the orders 
of waiting patrons. Up a worn, steep flight of 

stairs leading from the sanded floor the rest of 

172 



Sn Joondoa (jown 



the clie7iiele were ascending to the restaurant oc- 
cupying the two floors above. 

Memorable fish-cakes, were your Hke ever en- 
joyed! Fish-cakes made of fish, not codfish, as 
I was an hour later informed by an important- 
looking gentleman below stairs in a shining silk 
tile standing in front of his collection of deep- 
sea delicacies. I asked him about his fish, for 
many were of species new to me. 

This individual had an aggressive politeness 
about him and an eye as cruel as a shark's. Be- 
sides, as I say, he wore (for the hour) a shining 
silk tile and a frock coat, two details which he 
evidently wished me to observe. Having ad- 
dressed him with that politeness one is used to 
in France (one raises one's hat in Paris, be it to 
fishmonger or depute), he regarded me out of his 
savage eyes for a moment and asserted his rank 
by a snarl of explanation ; my manner had puz- 
zled him. No gentleman had ever raised his 
hat to him. Was I of his class? or below it? 
or above it? He became aggressive to be on 
the safe side. 

" And are these all English fish? " I asked. 

"Yes, sir," he snapped— the "sir" evidently 
being from force of habit,— eyeing me coolly. 

174 



etc and (jliete 



" That's wot we call fish. They're the best that 
can be had in all England. They're none of 
your codfish that you call fish in America. We 
only cater to 'igh-class customers, we do ; them 
wot has their mansions. All kinds of codfish, 
what we call codfish, is sold here to Jews. They 
wouldn't do for the best market in the biggest 
city in the world." 

" Thank you," said I. "It is extraordinary 
how much you know about America. I am in- 
debted to you." 

" Good morning," he snarled. He entered his 
domain and, donning a white apron, berated a 
hireling opening oysters, to further convince me 
of his prosperity. 

" Tell me, what is a 'bob'? " I had asked one 
of the waiters in a smart restaurant. 

" Well, in your language, sir, you calls it a 
shillin', sir, but in hour language, sir, we calls it 
a 'bob,'" said he. 

France is a country of universal politeness 
among its class who serve, yet it is the most 
democratic of nations. In England there is no 
democracy of this kind evident. The aristo- 
cratic scion of a family generations old gives all 
to his eldest son and sends his youngest out to 

^75 



Sn Joondoa uown 



shift for himself. The private soHcitor dances 
in attendance upon the secretary of the lord. 
The second man cringes before the butler; the 
housemaid before the housekeeper ; the kitchen- 
maid before the cook ; the second scullery-maid 
stands awestruck before the first ; the slavey ac- 
cepts the daily insult of the second kitchen- 
maid. The head coachman, fattened upon his 
lord's estate, runs his stable like a despot and 
only deigns to take orders from his superiors 
when he sits smilingly upon the family coach. 
The groom becomes a tyrant to the stable boy. 
English egotism will not have it otherwise. 

It was in the tailor shop of a pleasant old 
Scotchman that I witnessed an elder son, a man 
of high title and great wealth, lay bare his char- 
acter. The genial old Scotchman and I were 
talking when the door opened with a wrench 
and a tall man, immaculately dressed, strode in 
and. began a tirade against the kindly old tailor. 

"I tell you," he roared, " I'll not have you 
bothering me with my brother's debts, do you 
hear?" 

The old Scotchman tried quietly to explain. 

" I don't want your explanation, I'm damned 

if " 

176 



aioe^e and o/i 



cce 



" But, my lord!" ventured MacDonald tim- 
idly. 

*' Do you understand?" bellowed the irate 
nobleman. "I'll have none of your explana- 
tion. This is the second time I've been both- 
ered with your miserable account among my 
papers on my desk. If my brother is a thief it's 
none of my affair, do you hear? If he's a thief," 
he cried savagely, "let him settle his own af- 
fairs, but mind you, you'll not bother me again 
about it." 

" Very good, my lord," and MacDonald bowed 
and held his peace as the immaculate giant in 
the faultless clothes slammed the door behind 
him and jumped into his private hansom. 

When he had gone I asked this kindly old 
tailor what had happened. He paused for a 
moment, the better to control his voice and his 
hands, both of which were in a tremble. 

" Well, you see, sir," he began, " nearly two 
years ago his brother came to me one bitter 
cold night, as bad a night as we ever had in 
London, sir, and asked me for an overcoat. He 
was obliged to run down to Essex, he said, and 
it was a long drive from the station to the coun- 
try-seat he was going to. He had been an old 
12 177 



Qjii Jhondoa 6 



0\K>1X 



customer of mine, Mr. Edric had, and I had 
made his clothes for him since he was a lad at 
school. I gave him the warmest coat I had, for 
I was lucky enough to have one that another 
gentleman had ordered and never called for, and 
sir," he said sadly, ** I never saw the coat or 
heard from the brother again. At the end of the 
year I sent my bill to his lordship, asking his 
lordship's pardon, but would he be so kind as to 
forward it to his brother. No answer came, and 
a day or so ago I sent another statement to him. 
Mr. Edric, I have heard, is in Australia. He 
was a fine young man, and I dare say has been 
in bad straits." The old man paused and half 
turned away. Then he said, his voice steadier: 

" Let's see, sir; was it the gray you liked, or 
was it a bit heavy? Quite right, sir. Of course, 
I'm not suggesting, sir, but here is something, 
sir, a grand cloth, I'll guarantee it for wear," and 
he opened a roll of homespun. 

I chose it absently, for my mind was upon the 
lord who had refused to pay a brother's debt 
and had denounced him in public as a thief. 

" Cruel and hard was Ivan, whom they called 

'The Terrible.' " 

The rolling 'bus to-day, with another red-faced 
178 



c7/i Joondon O 



own 



driver, has brought me to the end of its route. 
Here I found still surviving one of those ancient 
types of road-houses, a quaint old coaching- 
tavern in which lounged, smoked, and talked a 
clienMe of men who have spent their lives about 
'osses. There wasn't a man among them whose 
hands and knuckles did not show a daily and 
lifelong handling of the reins. But it was a sign 
over a rambling old shop adjacent to the tavern 
which most interested me. Letters of the type 
of a century ago announced the name of the 
firm, and below them ran the following: 
" Makers of Loo and Hazard tables." 
Shade of Smollett ! These favorite games of 
the idle rakes of bygone days. The games of 
" Loo " and " Hazard," can the memories of even 
great-grandfathers recall them? Who plays 
Loo and Hazard to-day ? Does the rambling old 
shop ever get a customer? Yet it is still ready to 
do business at the old stand. I dare say there 
are shops in London where one might leave an 
order for an arquebus. And yet London is un- 
dergoing radical changes. This city, built so 
long ago, is being torn down in many quarters; 
whole blocks, in fact, have been razed lately to 
make room for new theaters and other buildings. 



i8o 



c/Gete and ^h 



lete 



Some of these desolate areas, such as that 
skirted by the newly opened King's Highway, 
resemble a vast area wiped out by some recent 
fire. 

It is interesting to note the clever balance 
between civility and servile politeness among the 
tradesmen. The moment you are polite to them 
their manner becomes insolent. 

I found types like these among every class 
from the dry-goods clerk to an expert shoe- 
maker. The proprietor of a small and evidently 
long-established shop on the Strand, aproned 
and bare-armed, had endeavored to extract 
nearly fifty shillings from me in exchange for a 
pair of hunting-boots. The price for the boots 
was excessive, and I hinted the fact to him with 
some clearness. He waxed aggressive in his 
assertion that he could make as good a boot as 
any man in England, and if I wanted second- 
class work I had better go to one of those 
American shoe shops where they sold ready- 
made trash. The term ''ready-made" set him 
talking as satirically as a barber over a safety 
razor, whereas the truth is that thousands of 
well-to-do Englishmen to-day buy their hunting- 
boots ready-made in the scores of ready-made- 



Qjii Jhondoa (Down 



shoe shops that have in ,the last few years found 
a firm foothold in London. 

I have tried two ways of treating the shop- 
keeper. The Englishman's way is the only one 
possible. 

If the sun shines you will find Hyde Park 
thronged with private equipages, yet these 
broughams and turnouts have but little glitter 
or smartness about them. For the most part, 
the private turnouts in this select rendezvous 
have a certain old-fashioned conservativeness 
about them even to the liveried coachmen and 
grooms. Many of the family carriages are of 
ancient pattern, and the horses lack the style 
one sees in the Bois de Boulogne or Budapest. 
Only now and then a stylish little cob paces 
by, mounted by some old fellow taking his daily 
constitutional. 

Contrast Hyde Park with the Bois de Bou- 
logne. Hyde Park is flat and formal. Some of 
it, however, reminds one of portions of New 
York's Centra] Park. Even its famous " Marble 
Arch" is an unimpressive and much-undersized 
gateway. Hyde Park is essentially a park for 
aristocracy to take the air in. Many of them 

have but to step to it from their superb dwell- 

182 



c7/i Joondori Oo 



wn 



ings facing it. It is a breathing-ground of fine 
lawns and sturdy trees, of neat walks and broad 
drives, but it is not a feathery green fairyland 
like the Bois de Boulogne, of wild wood and 
water, of hills and dales, of green alleys and 
little brooks, and of cAzc restaurants and cafes. 
This mundane arcadia of Paris is as unlike its 
English sister as black is unlike white. Hyde 
Park is a staid, opcn-^iir promenozr for people of 
wealth. No public vehicle may pass its gates, 
and one feels like putting on one's best manners 
when entering, and seeing that one's hat has not 
been rubbed by some clumsy beggar in passing. 
The other night found me at a popular con- 
cert, one of those perfectly trained orchestras 
massed upon a vast stage that, if late, we tiptoe 
into a back seat to hear, as quietly as if we were 
attending a funeral. There was no gainsaying 
as to the precision with which they rendered the 
the classical program. They were precise, and 
played with intelligence and healthy good-will, 
but they lacked temperament, fire, emotion, with- 
out which no musician can ever hope to impress 
an audience. It was an orchestra admirably 
fitted to the phlegmatic and unemotional race of 

people to whom it played. 

184 



etc and o/iete 



If you would see the '* London gigolette," the 
flower-girl, you must go to Covent Garden mar- 
ket. You will see her on market mornings busy 
with her buttonhole " bokays " for the day. She 
is only one of many types around this redolent 
old market reeking in mud, cheese, and green 
vegetables, rare fruit, and excellent meat, too. 
In fact, the best that comes to London can be 
had in this slimy old place of barter and sale. 
Here too there are some hard-looking types of 
market hands and loungers ; brawny fishwomen, 
coarse and good-natured, but with a ready wit 
and a command of Billingsgate all their own. 
But among this melange of mud, carts, cabbages, 
noise, and odor, as a type the flower-girl is the 
most interesting. Her bedraggled skirts, her 
black-fringed shawl, her worn, cracked shoes, 
seem somehow in keeping with her grubby, 
grinning face, framed by two oily curls of jet- 
black hair, half hiding her coarse, earringed ears. 
Her eyes, vicious as they are, still possess more 
merriment, more gaminerie in their depths than 
any other type I have seen here, and are shaded 
by a creation of a hat made up of black straw and 
a muss of feathers, one large plume, the more 

bedraggled of its mates, overtowering the rest as 

185 



yn Joondon U' 



own 



a final touch to this queen of the gutter. For it 
is along the gutter the girl and her basket live, 
selling her wares with a word for every one who 

falls within the radius 
^KB^i of her strident cry of 

I^I^^P^ " 'Ere y'are, fine mar- 

jpPIIJp ket bunch ! " 

If anything has 
ruined the general as- 
pect of a London thor- 
oughfare more than 
another the vast mul- 
titude of advertising 
signs may be said to 
have accomplished it. 
They are of all sizes, 
all colors and descrip- 
tions, glaring yellow 
placards, sickly blue boards, red and grass-green, 
plastered over every square foot available upon 
old and new buildings alike, and providing a 
multi-colored covering for motor and omni- 
buses. Among this panoramic labyrinth of 
raw color and staring letters no single one at- 
tracts the eye. 

The London thoroughfare is composed of two 
i86 




THE FLOWER GIRL 



aioete and. Qlieu 



levels, that of the sidewalks and that of the 
'bus-tops. So compact is the ceaseless traffic in 
some of the busy thoroughfares that, seen from 
the windows above, the road-bed is completely 
blotted out, and all one sees is the level of the 
maze of 'bus-tops and the traffic between. 

" Dirty Dick's ! " remarked my 'bus driver. 
" Ever ere tell uv Dirty Dick's? It wuz just in 
there as we wuz passin', a rum sort of plice. They 
tell 'ow the cobwebs 'adn't been swept off the 
ceilin' till they wuz a-'angin' down like curtins. 
There wuz three fellers once wagered to drink a 
hundred pots of beer in Dirty Dick's ! One got 
to a hundred and one and died ; the second e' 
died, 'e did; but the third 'e lived. They got 
the picters of the three of 'em hung in there over 
the tap." 

We jogged on. Suddenly he pointed with 
his whip. 

" This used to be Seven Dials. Rough place 
in the old days, sir, but it's all chainged now." 

To modernize such a popular old dining re- 
sort as Simpson's on the Strand is to ruin it. 
To-day this famous grill stands renovated from 
roof to cellar. I do not know what it once was, 
except that it had an enviable reputation for 

.87 



Qjn Joondon O 



o\^n 



grilled kidneys, chops, and things, but to-day, 
like many others, it has been installed with a 
beautifully designed white room. It evidently 
preserves a few of its ancient customs, as that 
of putting the early and the late comer at the 
same table. This is a pest one is supposed to 
put up with in railway buffets and cheap oyster 
houses, but in an establishment of such reputa- 
tion and such prices it was amazing. 

Here, too, were English waiters. They were 
a slow, badly trained lot of cockneys, quick to 
have been insolent had they been given the 
chance. I can truthfully say I had no worse 
dinner in London, more poorly served upon a 
much-bespotted cloth (that after some effort was 
hidden by a clean one) , than I had at this newly 
installed grill of ancient reputation. Its clienfele 
(it being Sunday evening) was not made up of 
the distinguished bon vivants I had been led to 
imagine would be there, but in their stead were 
a very respectable collection of young clerks in 
their Sunday best with their best young girls. 
I could have dined for less and far better in any 
of the grills of the smart hotels. It is an old 
adage that the best place is the cheapest. 

Even in one of the most expensive restaurants 




ARRIET 



c7/i Jbondoa (Down 



in Paris, if not in the world, the Cafe Anglais, 
the late George Augustus Sala (and no man was 
a better authority, or knew his Paris better) 
found a moderate-priced maison for one who 
has had experience. There are so many restau- 
rants which feed you upon their decorations ; as 
for the rest, you may be sure that the cheapest in 
the market, including their wine, is given you in 
exchange for a set price which you may also be 
sure is nine-tenths profit to them. In places 
like these in pour the sheep, gulled by the or- 
chestra, the decorations, the olives, and the 
lights, and no one is permitted to see the 
kitchen. 

How modest are the interiors of some of the 
oldest Parisian restaurants, what spotless linen, 
what perfect service, what careful marketing, for 
the freshest and best obtainable at the Halles 
goes to their modest kitchens ; what wine slum- 
bers within their caves! 

The other night, while dining in a private 

room in an ancient London restaurant (and an 

excellent one it was), roars of laughter suddenly 

echoed forth from the adjoining corridor. " Sir 

William ! " cried a dozen sturdy voices, " you 

may come in ; we're ready ! " 

190 



^ '^ete arid 0/iete 



Sir William, a merry old Englishman, with 
the head of a veteran ambassador, had been, I 
discovered, exiled to the corridor by the rest. 
The door had been closed upon him. It was 
no less than an old-fashioned guessing game 
that these merry old grandfathers were playing 
and hugely enjoying at the end of their jolly 
dinner, and Sir William was " it." 

A moment later fresh roars of laughter and 
bravos greeted Sir William's guess, and some 
other old comrade went out to wait until the 
others, after much whispering, hailed him in to 
the test. Here were these goodly old gentlemen 
at a stag dinner playing at children's games! 
There was a healthy simplicity, a love of home 
about it that was charming, or a firm belief in 
the memories of childhood, or had they reached 
their second childhood? You would not have 
thought so, had you taken in at your leisure, as 
I was fortunate enough to, each healthy old gen- 
tleman as he filed out, got into his great-coat, 
and went home at a seasonable hour to bed. 
The majority of them were of that sturdy intel- 
lectual type of aristocracy to whom a nation 
may turn in a great crisis. What more refresh- 
ing sight could have culminated a good din- 

IQI 



Sn Joondon Oown 



ner! One had only to look at them to be con- 
vinced that within their estates and manors lived 
peace, charity, and good-will. 

Tucked away in a side street off the Strand 
is a modest window flaunting an oyster shell of 
such gigantic size that one wonders whether it 
did not find its way from the property-room of 
the Drury Lane Theater close by, rather than 
the deep sea. Behind the oyster shell you will 
discover a dingy little tap-room whose walls are 
covered with old prints of the stage. This is 
" Rules." 

Having squeezed your way past a group of fat 
actors and lean song-and-dance men chatting in 
the tap-room, you penetrate to a back parlor, 
dimly lit and partly hung in dusty red plush and 
furnished with small tables, easy-chairs, and di- 
vans. If the clock has struck five of an espe- 
cially gloomy afternoon, you will find this parlor 
filled with more Thespians. The pale, shaggy- 
browed, curled, and oiled, tragedian over in the 
corner is in impressive conversation with a short 
bullet-headed little man, a famous old clown. 
The tragedian crosses his bony knees, unbut- 
tons his shiny frock coat, and regards the bullet- 
headed little man beneath his bushy eyebrows. 

192 




Arrangement with W. Thacker & Co., London, 



[Drawn by Phil May.] 



I TELL YOU, I KNOW THE WORLD 



Qja Joondon (Down 



" Over their heads ! " he exclaims hoarsely 
with a gasp. " Would that you, me boy, had 
supported me in Richard ! " He lowers his 
voice, for a girl in a cheap petticoat cmd three 
thumb rings has swept past his lean knees to 
join three other vaudeville sisters at a near-by 
table. 

" Bah ! " whispered the tragedian, '' what must 
we support when we are forced to play against 
women like her sister ! " 

" A fine dancer," ventured the old clown. 

" Granted, my boy, but zounds, man, had 
you seen her in the Castle scene. 'Twas but 
an imposition upon an honest actor. Hello, 
Clara ! " 

"How are yer, Tony? The baby better? 
That's good. Myrtle well ? " 

"Your song? last week, yes, Mrs. Fenshaw 
was a-tellin' me. She 'eard it, dearie. She's 
doin' fine, thanks. A quid a week." 

A gentleman with cuffs, a hero, now strolls in 
among the crowded tables. 

" Hello, 'Arry," cry a dozen, " when did you 
get back? " 

" Hello, Madge ! " 

"Why, hello, 'Arry, you're quite a stranger!" 
194 



tnoeie an J ^(j/iete 



" God save us ! " growls on the tragedian, catch- 
ing sight of the newcomer. " Egad, Harry, 
but thou art a welcome sight ! How is the 
wife — my regards to the missus," and he waves 
to the disappearing hero who goes in search of 
a comfortable corner and a pint of bitter. 

Here and there, within the smoky little parlor, 
sit chatting in little groups the people of the 
profession. Fat, happy-go-lucky old ladies who 
have played in their active, struggling lives 
everything from a child fairy to a witch. Ro- 
bust comedians, joking and guffawing, juve- 
niles sporting gaudy waistcoats, bedraggled 
little ingenues, flossy little blondes ever ready 
for any engagement and with a hauteur about 
them that makes one wonder how they ever 
get one; two more prosperous-looking trapeze 
brothers fresh from a matinee at the Empire, 
broad-shouldered and stockily built; next to 
them, a brutal, swarthy, ponderous Jew, evi- 
dently an agent wdiom a pale-faced, nervous lit- 
tle woman is talking earnestly with over a pos- 
sible engagement and which the old brute finally 
consents to see about, for she goes off smiling to 
her lodgings in Bloomsbury or Soho. All these 
fill the little parlor, whose w-alls, like those of the 

195 



Sn Jaondon 6 



own 



tap-room, are hung with prints and portraits of 
celebrities of the stage. 

A narrow flight leads from the tap-room to 
the floor above, and here in a rectangular room 
plastered with more rare prints is the restaurant, 
where one may get an excellent dinner, the only- 
thing surprising about it being the price. Or is 
the restaurant intended only for the gilded 
youth about town to invite the lad}^ with the 
blond wig and the thumb rings to dine ? I am 
quite sure my own bill at the end of a modest 
repast would have gone far toward paying the 
weekly salary of even the tragedian below stairs. 

It is a cruel business, this struggling for a living 
upon the London stage, a struggle in an over- 
crowded profession which at best means to thou- 
sands a tragic fight to live. Possibly in no city 
in the world is such a career fraught with as 
much misery as in London — the effort to con- 
ceal the often desperate and immediate need of 
money among the poorer of the profession, forced 
as they are to be as well dressed as possible ; the 
"bluff" they are forced to make to keep afloat 
among their fellows ; the long weeks of waiting 
for employment. The fact that rarely if ever 

husband, brother, sister, wife, or child can keep 

196 



e^e and oliete 



together or call any spot on earth '' home," is a 
tragic thing to realize. With their whole lives 
given to the unnatural and the artificial, it is no 
wonder that few actresses or actors ever retain a 
natural manner of gesture, thought, or voice. 
They are always acting, consciously on the stage, 
and unconsciously off it. 

That is why the handsome '' villain " who has 
just entered the tap- room and found a letter 
awaiting him plucks it dramatically from its 
niche and slaps it open with precisely the same 
gesture he does in the second act when he dis- 
covers the missing will. 

My friend Jerry, the fat actor, stood wiping 
his ever-perspiring brow in front of the polished 
taps one afternoon when he caught sight of me 
in the crowded little room. Good old Jerry 
who, having greeted me with a roaring chuckle, 
started in to let his imagination take its dra- 
matic course! He was always so terribly in 
earnest that his tallest lies seemed plausible. 

" My boy ! " he exclaimed with a grandiose 
air, "you say you are interested in circuses? in 
wild animals and their trainers. Magnificent 
sight, eh? a roaring Bengal in his cage. I was 
in the cages myself once, nearly eight years 

197 



CJii JdohcIoiz 6 



own 



of it when a youngster, and nearly lost me life. 
And let me tell you, I've not seen yet the woman 
or man I could not conquer by sheer force of will. 
You should have seen my 'Gladiator.' The 
people went wild — a great hit." 

" When I was a boy," he went on, clearing his 
throat, " when I was a boy," he bellowed, as a 
manager passed, that the august personage 
might catch the fine resonance of his voice, " my 
uncle had a private menagerie on his estate, and 
there I began to train for the love of it, when a 
mere lad, and many's the time I'd give me little 
exhibitions " (he choked at the thought, until 
his red puffy cheeks half hid his small beadlike 
eyes). " I'd put the tigers and the bears through 
their paces to the delight of the tenants, and 
when I grew up, long before I entered the legit- 
imate, mind you, I was with the old Wombwell 
show." He drew one fat, moist white hand 
emblazoned with a turquoise and a dull diamond 
ring over his perspiring brow, leaned his drip- 
ping umbrella against the bar, and pushed his 
silk hat farther back upon his close-cropped 
hair. 

" My uncle was a great hunter too," he went 
on. " He's dead long ago, poor chap, but, my 




Arrangen^entwlth W.Thacker & Co., Loadon. [Drawn by Lconard LinsdclL] 

OUTSIDE COVENT GARDEN. A MASKED-BALL NIGHT 



cln Joondon Oowa 



boy, we've been good pals and I'd like to give 
you a little souvenir as a keepsake, a knife with 
which my uncle once, single-handed, killed a 
tiger in India — an enormous brute." 

The next day he brought the knife to me 
\yrapped in a sheet of The Dramatic News and 
Sporting Gazette. 

It w^as a huge bowie-knife a foot long, with a 
stag-horn handle. It was good of Jerry, and we 
had a glass in silence over it to the memory of 
the uncle, and he received my profuse thanks 
with a gesture as dramatic as he had used to 
describe the desperate encounter and narrow 
escape of his relation. 

It would have been cruel to have drawn his 
attention to the fact that the blade had never 
been sharpened and bent like lead under pres- 
sure. I wonder to what property-room it be- 
longed and how many heroes and heroines it 
had slaughtered with that blunt edge in its time. 

Is the masked ball a thing of the past? Has 
it gone to the bow-wows like most of the world's 
gaiety? Verily the bal masques of the Paris 
opera to-day are a snare and a delusion. They 
are stupid affairs to which three-fourths of those 
who go are the daughters of concierges and cos- 

200 



cnDete and o/iete 



turners whose escorts are culled from the do- 
mestic ranks of the restaurants or the salons de 
coiffure on free tickets. All the old magnifi- 
cence of the bal masque of the Paris opera is 
now a thing of the past. 

Have they met the same fate in London? 
Yes, indeed. At Covent Garden the masked 
ball occurs fortnightly from October to the com- 
mencement of the opera season, but it is the 
same old story of decline. The house itself is 
brilliant enough with its vast interior festooned 
in lights and its exterior animated, and with the 
long line of carriages arriving after midnight 
with the usual crowd of pierrots, monks, colum- 
bines, mephistos, sailors, jesters, and various 
grades of fairies in semi-transparent gowns and 
cotton tights. Faithful old costumes, how many 
times have you been dragged out to hire from 
the musty boxes of cheap costumers and stuffed 
back again after the sun has risen and the weary 
and reckless are gathering their wits and coax- 
ing their appetites after one of these all-night 
affairs that seldom, if ever, pay for the going! 

Magic words, '' Bal masque !'' smacking of 
wickedness, and forever and eternally tame. 

In nine cases out of ten you go to the Covent 

201 



cJii Joondoix Oown 



Garden ball, as the rest of the wise ones do, in 
a dress coat. As for your pocket-book, you will 
be wise to limit its contents, for you will not be 
alone with your wealth long in that glittering 
throng of the tinseled ones who have made it a 
point to meet you there. You will find plenty 
of opportunity to get rid of your guineas in 
flowers or champagne. You may even find the 
artful loitering within the lobby " waiting for a 
friend " and archly loathful to pay their own en- 
trance guinea providing you are gallant enough 
to pay it ; and why not you as well as any one else ? 

A well-ordered affair is the Covent Garden 
ball, too well ordered to be riotously gay; the 
police see to that. If you have been among the 
faithful, you will have yawned with the rest at 
daybreak. I do not say that you will not have 
gathered memories ; a pretty woman is forever 
new, and there have been many here, and the 
colors and costumes, the laughter and merri- 
ment have done their share to keep you awake. 

You have danced. Now it is broad, foggy 
daylight and you must pay the fiddler. Here 
and there, straggling out into the chill, are 
others to whom the night is still young and 
whose gold is not yet gone. 

202 



CHAPTER VIII 
\v/iete Jbondoa .Joaiicilid 




CHAPTER VIII 
w/iete Joondon Joau^lid 

rHE London music-hall is the mother 
of vaudeville developed through 
decades of experience and genera- 
tions of tradition. These tradi- 
tions which have crept into the 
English variety show are as faith- 
fully adhered to and as popular 
lo-day with gallery and pit as they ever were. 

There is hardly a season without its list of 
new sensational acts more original and more 
startling than the year before, but these must 
be surrounded upon every program by some of 
the good old-fashioned " turns " without which 
the new dish would lack a good sauce. I am 
speaking now of the " Halls " of the people. 

Drop into the Pavilion some afternoon for 
nothing better, if you will, than to see again the 
old stand-bys. Here are the good old turns 

in plenty waiting until you are comfortably set- 

205 



c7/i JLyondoa (Down 



tied in your stall, when they will greet you. The 
curtain has just rung up on a dark wood scene 
and a glass tank filled with swashing emerald 
water. Where is that veteran expert swimmer? 
Ah ! here he is, grown a little stout and gray, 
a dozen more medals having been added to the 
glittering collection on his stalwart chest. Of 
course it's he. It couldn't be otherwise. You 
haven't seen him perhaps in ten years, but he's 
here again bowing to an applauding house as he 
introduces a veritable mermaid as beautiful as 
she is classic, young, and graceful. 

'' Miss Meredith and myself," he announces in 
a water-soaked voice, " will bring to your kind 
atten'^ion this afternoon various feats of graceful 
swimmin', divin', and remainin' under water in 
the act of eatin'and sleepin',concludin' with my 
original feat of pickin' up coins from the bot- 
tom of the tank with my hands tied." All of 
which happens in the next twenty minutes to 
the accompaniment of a slow waltz and a ray of 
calcium light. 

A little later on comes the Scotch comedian, 
with a head full of stories in a dialect wholly 
unintelligible to any but a London audience, 

but which keeps the gallery and pit in a roar, 

206 



w/iete JoOiiJoti Jhaaglid 



followed by three nimble sisters who speak Eng- 
lish and know fifty jig steps. You will never be 
able to catch a word of what they say, but your 
feet will be kept in a patter with their clever 
dancing. 

And now the stage is noisy with a pack of 
yelping, big and little, grave and gay poodles, 
serious mastiffs, and scampering fox terriers, 
each rushing to his respective stool. 

Again the curtain descends and rises, this 
time upon a gaudy little parlor containing three 
kitchen chairs, a screen, and a table with a vase 
of wax flowers. Before you know it the inevita- 
ble married couple, the meek husband and the 
fat, candy-haired wife, have laid the plot for a 
domestic quarrel. And how they quarrel! It 
was by a wretched circumstance that the meek 
husband, having at last a night out alone, has 
been discovered by his termagant of a better half 
at the local masked ball. " And who were you, 
I'd like to know, when I married you?" smites 
the air and raps at the drum of your ears as of 
yore. 

"Well, I never!" shrieks his wife- "You'll 
pay for this, you villain ; and let me tell you, 

Simon Bumblebee, that the next time " roars 

207 



Qja Jo ado IX Oown 



out upon your innocent head like a torrent of 
hail. 

You're glad you're not Simon Bumblebee. 
That's what makes you pound and chuckle and 
applaud with the rest. 

" That's good ! " chokes a red-faced old man 
in the next seat, who has evidently had plenty 
of marital experiences, while an equally red- 
faced woman behind you slaps one coarse, jew- 
eled hand across her mouth and the other to 
the center of her shapeless waist and rocks and 
wheezes in merry pain. 

" Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! " she cries at last, able 
to catch a quarter of her breath. 

Simon Bumblebee has at last asserted his 
rights. If you don't believe it, look upon the 
stage. Simon is laying the law down to his bet- 
ter half; he's brandishing a poker and with the 
stentorian voice of a lion-tamer is enjoying the 
wrenlike apologies of Mrs. Bumblebee. He's 
even going back to the ball, when suddenly the 
two old veterans in fun join hands and bow to 
the descending curtain. They have worked 
hard, and they must hurry off, wash up, and rush 
back for a bite in their modest home before the 
evening performance. 



208 




Arrangement with W. Thacker & Co.. London. [^^^^^ ^y Frank Reynolds.] 

A FAMOUS COMEDIAN OF THE HALLS. 



Sn Jo ado a 60 



Wfl 



Good old turns, what would the halls be with- 
out you? 

London is rich in music-halls. They are of 
every degree and for every class, but there is 
only one queen of music-halls among them, the 
Empire, and her supremacy in the even excel- 
lence of her program and the comfortable luxury 
of her establishment remains paramount among 
the music-halls of the world. You may have 
dropped into the Alhambra or The Pavil- 
ion, both near-by neighbors, gone in for a 
laugh at the Tivoli, or found your way to a 
cheaper front seat in the smokier and plainer 
halls of the East End, but you will in none of 
these have seen anything that approaches the 
perfection of the Empire. It stands for all that 
is best in vaudeville or spectacular ballet. To 
this brilliant house of amusement come the best 
talent obtainable in the variety world. Up its 
broad stairways, into its turquoise-blue and white 
and gilt auditorium, and up to its Z'^y promenoir 
come nightly the best and worst of idle London, 
including every stranger, be he Hindoo or Hot- 
tentot, Russian or French, for there are far more 
people that know of the Empire than ever heard 

of the National Gallery or Westminster Abbey. 

210 



Wheze Joondofi Joaua/id 



If you have dined, follow the throng. You 
will find that at the Empire there are no poor 
acts; that the jjallet is an artistic production, 
the scenery and costumes being especially well 
done, and that the seats are as spacious and 
comfortable as the ones in your own club. 

To-night the promenoir is crowded. Between 
the acts you move about among those prome- 
nading. All the women here are of a type more 
gorgeously gowned and jeweled than any you 
remember to have yet seen in the similar /r^;;^- 
enoirs of the lesser halls. They stand about idly 
in groups or singly, preserving that unobtrusive 
reserve, according to the law governing their 
nightly deportment toward duke or tourist, until 
invited to talk, when they develop a repartee 
and a thirst which are amazing. 

Leaning with her elbows on the balcony rail 
and peering down into the vast auditorium 
shimmering in a haze of smoke and electricity, 
stands a lithe woman in a brilliant gown of scar- 
let. She hums to herself a refrain from the 
waltz the big orchestra has just finished playing. 
Ah! now she is talking to a gentleman. It was 
possibly her reserve which attracted this smart 
young blood. Her dark eyes regard his own 

211 



Qja Joondoa Oown 



demurely, eyes that might once have caused 
trouble in Rumania. The woman is a skilled 
actress, a past mistress in the art of hypnotism. 
The little blonde just beneath the electric light 
beyond possesses a retrousse nose and a mouth 
full of gleaming teeth as white as the pearls at 
her throat. She is Holland Dutch ; she too is 
preserving her dignity like the rest, while her 
gray eyes search the throng for a gilded fool 
who will think her jolly enough to proceed to the 
glittering little bar opposite and open a bottle. 
In the mean time she stands waiting, and 
glances down occasionally at the performance, 
which is, of course, as old a story to her as it is 
to the esthetic maiden ladies in empire gowns 
and lace caps who see you safely to your stall 
and sell you a program. 

Again the curtain is up and a swinging, 
snappy march heralds a family of acrobats. 
Those in the promenoir crowd against the rail 
to watch them, for they are well worth seeing. 
Applause! A clever trick that! Hello, the 
oldest girl in the family of nimble tumblers is 
limping. The drums roll and the trombones 
blare as she pluckily climbs to the neck of 
the topmost of the three brothers standing on 



\yhete Joondon M>aughd 



each other's shoulders. Here she braces her 
feet carefully and bends her finely trained body 
backward for the double somersault that, if 
nicely calculated, will land her upright upon the 
shoulders of her stronger sister ready to receive 
her upon the mat below. 

A second's pause. 

Up ! she whirls in her pink fleshings, her 
knees gripped tight to her chin ! In a flash she 
lands upon her sister's shoulders and is nodding 
to a well-earned applause. 

Instantly the nimble family become whirling 
pinwheels, but as they leave the stage at the fin- 
ish of the act the eldest sister is limping badly. 

An intermission, and the curtain rises upon 
the ballet pantomime, " The Bugle Call." The 
first scene, representing the courtyard of a Nor- 
man hostelry a century ago, is as charming a 
bit of staging and as clever a piece of scenic art 
as modern stage-craft can produce. The gables 
and thatched roof, the mellow vista seen through 
an adorable old gateway half smothered in vines 
that have run wild over crevice and stone, the 
carefully studied costumes of the Norman peas- 
antry and the masterly style in which this scene 

is lighted and, which is more important, shaded, 

213 



Vn Jo>ondon ADox^on 



make one doubt if the Marigny or Opera Co- 
mique in Paris has ever produced anything 
better. This eitsemdle is a fitting setting to that 
present idol of London, Mile. Adeline Genee, 
the premiere danseuse who in the trimmest of 
bugle-boy costumes (and they can be very trim 
at the Empire) is now whirling her way in the 
midst of the merry peasantry. You have never 
seen anything quite like her before; she is 
unique, this finished danseuse. There are an in- 
telligence and a refinement about her whole per- 
sonality, and with these she dominates the stage. 
She is not only a very great dancer, but a panto- 
mimic actress who unfolds the entire plot of the 
piece to you. The whole gamut of human emo- 
tions seems either at her finger-tips or her toes. 
It is difficult to tell which, but they are there 
nevertheless, and in such lightning, rhythmic 
succession that they hold you fascinated during 
every moment she is on the stage. Few dancers 
in England have been granted the honor to be 
bidden by order of His Majesty, the King, to 
dance at Windsor, yet to Mile. Genee the royal 
household afforded an ovation. 

This must be a very unapproachable and 

proud lady, I thought to myself as the curtain 

'214 




MLLE. ADELINE GENEE. 



vn Jo>ondon 6 



otp/i 



fell, and I pondered whether if I wrote a note 
and asked for an interview my request would 
meet the same fate as the bouquets of the chap- 
pies in the front row. But in this I was mis- 
taken, for I found myself at an appointed hour 
the next morning following the heels of an offi- 
cial down a pair of iron stairs and along a corri- 
dor to a cozy, newly papered box of a dressing- 
room containing a cheerful gas-log fire, a chintz 
curtain hiding some ballet skirts and frou-frous, 
a dressing-table, two chairs, and last, but not 
least, the artist whom I had come to congratu- 
late and with whom I spent a delightful hour. 
It was a pleasure to meet this refined, modest, 
gracious, and fair-haired little woman who hails 
from Denmark, who speaks five languages as 
fluently as her own, and who since the age of 
five has worked incessantly until she is mistress 
of her art, the art of telling a story by gesture, 
dance, and pantomime. Some day Adeline 
Genee will interpret those ballets which have 
become classic in the great opera-houses of the 
world. At present she is delighting critical 
London, and that for one fair young woman is 
not an easy task. 

As I took my leave the narrow corridor re- 
216 



whete Jhondoa Joaug/i,] 



verberated with the chorus of a Wagnerian opera 
being rehearsed on the stage overhead, and a 
black cat with a tinkhng bell trotted ahead of 
me. In a few hours these stairs would be run- 
ning over with chorus girls, acrobats, and stage 
hands. The Wagnerian opera-singers will have 
given way to trick bicyclists, the tumbler, the 
ventriloquist, and the spectacular ballet, and the 
gracious little Dane will dominate them all. 

Cater-cornered with the Empire on Leicester 
Square stands its rival, the Alhambra Music 
Hall, with its gilded Moorish interior. If you are 
a careful observer you will note that this spacious 
house of variety is under an excellent manage- 
ment where, as the phrase runs, " Everything is 
done for the comfort of its patrons." If your 
seat happens to lie in the path of a draft they 
will change it with the utmost politeness at the 
box-ofifice and do everything in their power to 
make you comfortable. The service of door- 
men and ushers is irreproachable, the orchestra 
excellent, and the seats wide and restful, but the 
performance can not be compared with that at 
the Empire. It is throughout of a cheaper class. 

The ballet contained a goodly scattering of old 

maids, and its younger members are not of the 

217 



(yn JLondoa (d 



own 



first choice. You will notice too that altho the 
promehoir is gay with the passing monde and 
demi-monde, the latter are of a variety gowned 
for the occasion in cheaper frou-frous and for 
whose alluring beauty rouge and a black pencil 
and two drops of belladonna are largely respon- 
sible. And yet, all said, you may spend a very 
pleasant evening at the Alhambra, and the per- 
formance, altho made up of cheaper talent than 
at the Empire, is far from dull, and much of it is 
excellent. 

If you would see a costly and luxurious Co- 
lossus of a music-hall go to the Coliseum. 

Its auditorium is gigantic in size. Its stage is 
big enough to serve as a parade-ground for a 
regiment. Fitted as it is throughout in marble 
and maroon velvet and mahogany-backed chairs, 
with its vast galleries sweeping up to the gilt 
and luster of its great ceiling ; with its big orches- 
tra, its two choirs, and its revolving stage, the 
first glance of this superb house will open your 
eyes wide. Its vast, rich interior is impressive. 

You are astonished too at the moderate prices 
charged for seats, the cheapest being sixpence, 
which, despite its moderate price, can be booked 
in advance, and as you find your own you won- 



218 



wliete Joondoii Jhauglid 



der whether the show will be up to the level of 
all this extravagant gorgeousness. 

Here again, as is too often the case in Lon- 
don, there is too poor a show for the magnifi- 
cence of the theater. The two mixed choirs in 
costume occupy two vast boxes on either side 
of the proscenium, where they wait in silence 
until some mediocre, serio-comic soprano 
launches forth in " Give my Regards to Leices- 
ter Square," when they rise as if at a funeral and 
give their vocal support in the refrain. Finally a 
military drill of real soldiers out of a job came 
as a climax to the variety turns. The multitude 
from pit to gallery filed out, the giant of a music- 
hall was promptly closed, and I found myself in 
a curious old alley standing under the glare of a 
saffron electric light and surrounded by a crowd 
of chorus people and stage hands silhouetted 
black against the flare from this midnight sun. 

Does London possess a Bohemia? I can not 

imagine a more cheerless and unsympathetic 

city for an art student than this fog-swept, solid 

town, but despite it all hundreds of students peg 

away and learn to paint, to sculpt, or to fashion 

so beautiful a thing as music within this big 

brutal metropolis. Since there is no " Boul 

219 



c//i Jhondoa (Down 



Miche " or Luxembourg or Bullier or intime 
cafes for them to dream away their youth in out 
of working hours, their vie de Boheme must be 
a practical work-a-day Hfe at best. A few of the 
more fortunate ones make their escape to the 
shores of France and find a paradise awaiting 
them in the Quartier Latin, which, if the truth 
be told, has sadly changed to a cosmopolitan 
mundane village, yet still it can afford to those 
in the pursuit of art a Hfe that no other city on 
the globe can offer. Being an artist in London 
must be very much like being a poet in Wall 
Street. 

Yet despite it all there are in London art 
clubs of a Bohemian character where these good 
and bad brothers of the brush may gather on 
certain nights to work first, to criticize next, and 
to play after. Here occur Bohemian smokers, 
genial evenings running into early mornings, en- 
livened throughout by the impromptu " stunts " 
of its cleverest members. Now a " stunt " may 
be a story, an imitation, a parody, or a song, 
and two of the best clubs for these Bohemian 
smokers are the London Sketch Club and 
The Langham. Their membership includes, 
you may be sure, all of the cleverest carica- 

220 



Wlicce J^ on do a .Jhauqli 



turists, illustrators, and writers in London. 
Strangely enough, throughout the length and 
breadth of the Latin Quarter these Bohemian 
clubs do not exist unless you mention that 
morgue-like affair known as the American Club, 
where the tamest and most conservative gather- 
ings occur, from the stiff and formal entertaining 
of a bishop wath lemonade, ballads, and serious 
piano solos, to a lonely exhibition of the mem- 
bers' work, concluding with a mild dance or a 
still milder smoker. 

And yet the American Club lies in the very 
heart of the Quartier Latin, w^here one does only 
as one pleases from the hour the sun sets until 
it rises. 

hi London the art club is a necessity; in the 
Latin Quarter there are hundreds of intime 
cafes and other fellows' studios to take its place. 

Mr. Arthur Lawrence, in speaking of this 
quest for a London Bohemia, tells me that '' St. 
Johns Wood is the acme of respectability, and 
that possibly the King's Road, Chelsea, is the 
nearest approach to the Quartier Latin in Lon- 
don, but there is not enough 'color ' in the artis- 
tic life of Chelsea to justify even a one-page 
leaflet on the subject," and further he adds that 

221 



Qja Jhondoix (jowii 



"he supposes I will be able to delineate some 
sort of Bohemianism whether I find it or not ; 
my American friends will expect it, and he sup- 
poses they will get it." I can not do better then 
than to quote Mr. Lawrence's description of the 
Langham Sketching Club : 

" Friday nights throughout the season are 
devoted to the 'Sketching Club.' Two subjects 
are given, and the sketches or paintings must be 
completed within two hours. Then comes the 
'Show up,' when the work of each member is 
subjected to the criticism of all the others. 
Afterward the company, with, perhaps, two or 
three guests, sit down to a large table on which 
a wondrous supper consisting principally of beer^ 
ham and pork pies, cheese, and celery is spread. 

"At these Friday suppers the visitor who has 
been invited by an artist friend to take a hand 
in the pork pie and pickles enters the inner 
sanctum with some fear and trembling, for, truth 
to tell, there is a considerable 'squeege,' as Mrs. 
Gamp would have said, and if he is blessed with 
a modesty at all equaling my own he will worry 
himself with the thought that he may be helping 
to incommode men who have earned their sup- 
per by two hours' hard work. The Friday sup- 

222 




A LONDON NIGHT 



Qja Jboadoa 6 



0iK>n 



per, however, is practically of a private character, 
but three or four times a year a conversazione is 
held, to which every member brings two or three 
guests. The walls of both rooms are crowded 
with pictures mostly of the small gems. The 
throne in the outer room on which the model is 
placed does duty as a platform for a piano, and 
in the inner room the committee table serves as 
a buffet, and one or two models, generally blessed 
with more than the average share of good looks, 
dispense beer and bread and cheese. This part 
of the program quickly develops into drifting up 
to the table and helping yourself. The enter- 
tainment, which lasts from eight o'clock to the 
small hours, is, so far as my experience goes, the 
best thing of its kind in London " —and no one 
knows London better than does Mr. Arthur 
Lawrence. 

As far as my own experience goes I know but 
few British Bohemians. In Bohemia they play 
the part of the spectator. English blood lacks 
the adaptability of the Latin. Englishmen arc 
seldom Bohemians aufojzd. No matter if three- 
quarters of their lives have been passed in the 
Quartier Latin, they remain in thought and 

character British to the end, amused at the 

224 



yy/iete Jooadoa JiDaucjIid 



show, seldom, if ever, a part of it. Their cama- 
raderie is of a reserved and formal character. If 
you appear to them as exceedingly well-bred and 
as reserved as themselves, they may mistake you 
for an Englishman and not as belonging to an 
inferior race. I am speaking of the average, not 
of such good old Bohemians as the late Phil 
May. I have never yet seen a Frenchman and 
an Englishman /^/j. 

Long live the Langham ! Long live anything 
informal in London ! 







%[■ 




15 225 



CHAPTER IX 
Cbboiit <^oine u/iin^id in J^attlcutat 



CHAPTER IX 



Chbout &ome b/iin^d in JDazticulat 

'Y friend's estate lay 
within two miles 
of London. I 
noticed that the 
guard, as he 
locked the door 
of my compart- 
ment, saw that 
no one else was 
put in with me. 
If my destination 
was this certain 
village and I was 
accompanied by 
"""^ '* '-- a trunk, it could 

be that I was go- 
ing to no other house than that belonging to 
the highly titled and simple young fellow whose 
ancestors dated back to the eleventh century! 

It is surprising how they take care of you on 

229 




c//i Jo ado II Oown 



these English raihvays. The railway officials 
are as polite to you as if they were in your 
employ ; no check is given you for your trunk ; 
you simply claim it by designating which one in 
the baggage van is yours on arrival. This sys- 
tem would not be a success, I fear, in any other 
country. There is a rugged honesty about these 
people which is a delight to see. Imagine claim- 
ing your baggage thus in America ! Each train 
would hold its complement of crooks. In Spain 
it would be even more impossible. I traveled on 
Spanish expresses not many years ago, at the 
rate of thirty miles every four hours and a half, 
where the conductor stopped to smoke cigarettes 
with a roadside acquaintance. On these trains 
there were two soldiers in every car to protect 
the passengers in case of a hold-up, a frequent oc- 
currence in those days, despite the fact that the 
line was guarded by soldiers. In the baggage- 
car were two more soldiers to see that the bag- 
gage-master in charge did not rob the mail-sacks 
or help himself to the contents of the trunks. 

It is a delight to see the way they run things 
in England. The laws of this solid civilization 
are enforced to the letter, and the people are full 

of God-fearing respectability. 

230 



&oine oiling d In UDatttculat 



I was thinking of these things as we sHpped 
into the station, a quarter of an hour's brisk 
drive from m}^ friend's estate. A moment later 
we were trotting through a quaint village, past 



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"^^^^E^BBBBh^ 


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iWr.. 




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in 


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m.: 




.^ «. .- 





A PEACEFUL LITTLE INN 

the butcher, the baker, and the harness-mender; 
past the humble home of the vicar; past a vine- 
covered church ; past a peaceful little inn ; past 
stray people along the road who drew aside and 
touched their hats as the trap of my host sped 

on to his country home. 

231 



cJii JLioadon O^ 



own 



In America we live in public places. Some 
of us are pigeonholed in gigantic apartment- 
houses ; others in rented suburban homes ; while 
many of us build from houses chosen from a 
colored catalog. Or if we suddenly grow rich 
we summon an architect on the telephone and 
tell him to get busy and build a home. Rush 
out architect and buy gobelins and ItaHan wells 
and statues enough to go round. Hustle up a 
pergola ; do it all at once and do it expensively. 
My contract calls for an ancestral estate by 
the first of May — complete library, polo amphi- 
theater, swimming-pool, vaudeville theater, auto- 
mobile garage, and golf links. Make it look as 
old as possible and spread out the Italian garden 
until it looks as if it cost money. If you can't 
get the real thing in the way of statuary and 
marble seats, get copies. As to pictures, I've 
made a separate contract with a dealer — say a 
dozen old portraits of people in ruffs, with grey- 
hounds, for the marble hall. Get an orchid- 
house — my wife likes 'em. Call it Wildmere 
Manor when you get it done, and send me the 
bill. 

In England ancestral estates are not built to 

order. The great houses, whose massive walls 

232 



(^onie (jlitagd la J^atticuta'C 

have stood, cared for and respected, through gen- 
erations of descendants, shelter the young lord 
to-day as they will shelter his grandchildren and 
their grandchildren. Many of these established 
country homes are free from that ostentatious 
show which so often characterizes the American 
country-seat and which is not lacking in France 
in the reconstructed chateaux of the nouveau 
riche. 

There are some strange freaks of modern 
architecture in France. In the case of Mon- 
sieur Toupin, who made his fortune as an honest 
merchant in cured hides, and straightway bought 
a few acres by the sea, close to the edge of a 
roadway, that the passing public in automobiles 
might see his purchase, you might with the 
naked eye see Monsieur and Madame Toupin 
almost any bright day strolling about upon their 
horrid little lawn studded with imitation rocks 
and provided with a rustic wash-basin contain- 
ing a lazy school of goldfish. 

Upon this chef (Toeuvre Monsieur and Madame 
would stand and gaze up in admiration at their 
awful house, a mixture of pillbox cupolas, gay 
in blue majolica tiles and weird ornaments run- 
ning down to a base of inverted nouveau art, of 



Qja Joondon O 



own 



impossible columns and arches, fashioned, no 
doubt, after the.furniture in the bazaar of the 
Hotel de Ville. On Sundays and fete days 
Monsieur and Madame Toupin would be hon- 
ored with a guest, Monsieur Florin, the sole 
proprietor of a new brand of absinthe. Short, 
stout, florid little Madame Toupin in a magenta 
wrapper, gay old Toupin, and the overfed Mon- 
sieur Florin would pass the whole of the sunny 
afternoon before this ideal of the Toupin family. 
I remember too a somewhat similar family 
mansion in America. In this instance it was 
the proud conceit of a respected soda-water 
manufacturer who, having purchased a stretch 
of primeval forest upon the edge of an Adiron- 
dack lake, proceeded to build /its ancestral home. 
It was, when completed, an exact copy of the 
marble mausoleum he had already caused to be 
erected in an expensive and much-sought-after 
cemetery and which was, I may dare add, an 
enlarged replica of his prize soda-water fountain. 
The handles of the doors within his forest home 
were of the same type that glittered in rows 
above the little tablets marked " Sarsaparilla," 
" Lemon," *' Orange," and " Clam-broth." He 
had fashioned his crest as well, a bas-relief of his 

234 



(^onie (j/itrigd in J^atttcuiat 

august self with two polar bears fighting their 
way up his voluminous beard. This piece de 
resistance emblazoned the great chimney-piece 
of the living-hall, whose columns and hood 
were studded with the imitation jewels that had 
lent Oriental splendor to his prize fountain. 

This form of insanity has not yet reached 
solid England, and it is safe to say that the peo- 
ple, aided by the authorities, would promptly 
suppress it if it did. 

The active little mare that has myself and my 
luggage in tow is now turning into a noble 
stone gateway flanked by a vine-covered porter's 
lodge and leading into an imposing road cut 
through a forest of giant oaks, a forest of copper 
and gold leaves, of gnarled trunks bearing their 
wide-spreading sturdy arms matted with foliage. 
Round and about these giant trees, beneath a 
vaporish mist, is spread a carpet of ferns, and 
everywhere within a few yards of the carriage 
wheels are rabbits, sleek, long-limbed hares, and 
pheasants peacefully feeding. Many of these 
great oaks are from six to eight hundred years 
old. 

We are trotting now through acres of rhodo- 
dendrons, their polished green leaves wet as if 

2.35 



oJii Jooridon 6 



0iK>n 



varnished with the mist, and now we turn in and 
out among giant hemlocks and towering pines. 
There is a quiet dignity, a vastness, a simpHcity 
about this fine old home forest that by compari- 
son makes our hastily constructed and brand 
new American country-seats seem cheap and 
tawdry, like the buildings at a fair. 

Suddenly a .vast sweep of undulating green 
country rolls away to the horizon. Another 
feathery curve of roadway, and behold the big 
house looms into view. 

It is of massive gray stone with solid square 
towers, generous doors and windows, and a 
comfortable covered porch. The light from a 
cheery fire illumines the windows of the big 
drawing-room, and beyond is a spacious conser- 
vatory choked with roses, rare orchids, and 
palms. Two servants in knee-breeches open 
silently the great oaken doors. Beyond them 
stands, in a columned hall, that good friend of 
mine with a hearty welcome, this simple young 
nobleman, honest, as well-bred as a king, and as 
free from all artificiality as a Bohemian. 

Five minutes later the little mare is under the 

care of the second groom, a silent valet is laying 

out my things somewhere up in a great bed- 

236 



Sn Joondon AD 



ov?n 



room in one of the stone towers, and my host is 
poking the fire in a cozy den whose walls hold 
a small arsenal of shot-guns and express-rifles, 
while I am sunk in a comfortable armchair before 
the blaze, thoroughly convinced that nowhere in 
the world is life in a country house so well un- 
derstood as it is in England. 

In England are many superb estates whose 
houses have been added to or reconstructed. 
But the reconstruction has not been achieved 
with the speed we are accustomed to in America. 
They rebuild slowly in England and with a view 
that the new part is to stand for all time ; walls 
are given time to settle before the well-seasoned 
cabinet-work of the rooms is fitted to them or 
the finished plastering is done. Cracked ceilings 
and warped paneling as a result are rare. The 
rebuilding of a great house is taken slowly as a 
pleasant occupation and is often a work of years. 

Just such a house was that of my host. One 
after another of his antecedents have had a 
share in its development, and during it, more 
than once, somiC hitherto secret passage or stair- 
case has been discovered. Imagine, if you can, 
the life this distinguised old house has seen in 

its days. Twice for a period of its life it has 

238 



(^onie ohing,) in J^attiCLiLa'C 

housed and warmed a king. The first king that 
made it his home was George IV., so that I was 
not surprised that my shoe closet led to a nar- 
row spiral flight leading to a window cut in the 
massive wall which my host informed me com- 
manded an excellent view of the passageway and 
afforded a safe ambush from which to take in at 
one's ease before they entered the king's cham- 
ber those who came for an audience with His 
Majesty. How many plots and conspiracies 
have been nipped in the bud by the aid of this 
hidden window? 

The second King that took it unto himself for 
a country home was Edward VII. But in these 
days of peace at home there is no need for hid- 
den windows or secret passageways. England 
fights her battles fairly, and there is no mystery 
about her good modern King. Things in Eng- 
land are above-board, and the King's life is that 
of any honest gentleman. 

Verily the country home of my friend is a 
kingly sort of house, a house with a spacious 
square hall whose marble pillars uphold a broad 
gallery reached by a wide sweeping staircase and 
lit by a ceiling with a glass dome. The corri- 
dors are wide; the great bedrooms have high 

239 



Qjfi Joondon Oowii 



ceilings and are furnished with noble furniture 
of mahogany and high-post bedsteads carved 
and canopied. The bedrooms are all height, 
silence, and shadow, in which one dresses by 
candle-light. 

But it was not the bedroom that attracted 
me. I found the gun-room hard by my host's 
den an endless source of delight. Within its 
cabinets were ranged rows of rifles, from a 
gleaming heavy-calibered tiger-rifle to a slim and 
small-calibered one for rooks. Here, too, were 
rows of field-guns ; smart little sixteen bores for 
covert shooting, long-barreled duck-guns ; twelve 
bores from the hands of celebrated makers, all 
of which had served him well in many a pheas- 
ant drive where the day's bag for half-a-dozen 
guns mounted up into the hundreds of birds. 
" Ripping shooting," as Reggie used to say. 
Even as I stood looking this private arsenal over 
a dozen golden pheasants and a score of sleek 
hares were feeding within a few yards of the 
gun-room window. Since most of my life I 
have been content after a hard day's tramp with 
a pair of partridges or even a chance shot at a 
rabbit after floundering all day through marsh 

stubble or timber, this exhibit of live game within 

240 



&ome oktn^d in Jz>atticiilat 

a distance that one might toss the stump of a 
cigarette was a revelation, and yet I must con- 
fess that to have opened fire on them would 
have been very much like beginning a massacre 
in a neighbor's poultry-yard. With us in Amer- 
ica we are content to bestir ourselves long before 
daylight and take a trail soaking w^et with mud 
and drenched moose=hopple so that by dawn we 
may reach some still water and a well-known 
runway. Here we used to lie in wait day after 
day for the faintest note of some faithful hound 
who might drive a buck our way. 

Or if it happened to be a question of partridges, 
we were content to wade streams, crawl through 
briers, and scramble over fire slash and windfall, 
often alone and without a dog, for a pocketful 
of birds, or, as was more often the case, none at 
all. How we used to sit next to the cheese- 
screen on the worn counter of Freme Gabway's 
store and listen with wonder to Silas Holcomb's 
account of " haow four year ago. last Octoby he 
seen a bear cross the road jes' this side of Ed 
Cummin's sugar bush ! " a statement that would 
be received by the assembled prophets about the 
stove with "Wall! Wall! I want to know!" 

With what creepy pride you would lay seven 
i6 241 



c7/i Jo on don Oown 



partridges on that worn counter after a hard day 
and receive the general approbation of : 

'' By gum ! You done well ! " 

It is contrast which gives the keenest delight 
in life. To gain nothing at all and to win a lit- 
tle, to have had bad luck for weeks and to sud- 
denly stumble upon the best half-hour's shooting 
of your life, is a golden memory that will cheer 
you up even when you grow very old and take 
to your fireside, your carpet slippers, and your 
favorite chair. 

In England shooting is a prearranged and 
formal function like a dinner party or a ball. 
You are bidden as a fifth or a sixth gun for a 
day or four days' shooting. You occupy the 
stand which is allotted to you and where you 
make as good a showing as possible with two 
guns which are kept clean and reloaded and 
passed to you by your shooting-flunky. When 
the beaters have started the drive you begin to 
pop away. If it be a good day and the birds fly 
well you will be kept as busy as a soldier in bat- 
tle. You are getting some ripping shooting, 
and you are working to add as much as possible 
to the score of the other guests before luncheon 

and after it. 

242 



&ome O/iuigd la Joaztlciilat 

The next day the papers will announce that 
yesterday a magnificent bag was made upon the 
seat of his Grace the Duke of So-and-So, and 
when the fellows at the club greet you with, '* I 
say, and did you really have some splendid 
shooting, old chap, at his Grace's?" you may 
reply absently : 

" Rather," and look bored. 

Take, for instance, in comparison our own 
duck-shooting along the Sound in America. 

Your good friend the captain, a simple old 
sea-giant, who owns a frame house along the 
shore and several hundred wooden decoys, has 
just telephoned you to New York that a north- 
easter is brewing, " a howler," he says, and that 
the ducks are flying. So you straightway call 
up the office of your best shooting-comrade, 
throw your warmest and oldest clothes into your 
valise, jump into a hansom, and manage after 
a scramble to catch your friend and the six 
o'clock evening train, an express with a dining- 
car, bound for Bridgeport. At Bridgeport an 
electric trolley whisks you both out to the edge 
of the Sound. Here the captain's raw-boned 
horse and rickety buggy are awaiting you. In 
twenty minutes you are lighting a second after- 

243 



c7/i Jhondoa (Down 



dinner cigar in the captain's snug house. You 
ma^^ have hunted with the captain once before. 
If so he greets you heartily, and, dropping all 
formality, calls you by your first name. He tells 
you that he "expected 'Sam ' up, but he's been 
so busy he couldn't leave nohow, clean druv to 
death." You learn too that the " Sam " re- 
ferred to is a man of great wealth and social 
position and, incidentally, the president of a rail- 
road and the honored friend of several vast com- 
mercial and philanthropic enterprises. To the 
captain he's plain " Sam." He thinks a lot of 
Sam. Says " he never see no man thet could 
kill ducks in a bilin' sea 'longside of Sam. Give 
him half a show and Sam '11 git 'em every time." 

At ten, having listened to trios of popular 
songs of the day rendered by the captain's three 
grown daughters and aided by the resonant 
notes of a varnished piano purchased by instal- 
ments and possessing a bell attachment and four 
pedals, you and your old friend Billy at ten are 
lit up to bed by a smoky kerosene lamp held 
gingerly in the colossal hand of the captain. 

It is a plain little room the lamp leads you to, 

but it is clean and cold, so cold that the crayon 

portraits hanging askew on its wall (post-mor- 

244 



&omc (jhitig.) in Jjactlcuiaz 

tern portraits of the captain and his good wife 
in their younger days) have a fihii over them, 
and the water in the pitcher resting upon the 
cheap wash-set has congealed with a thin cover- 
ing of ice. 

But you are used to this, and you tumble into 
bed and become oblivious to the temperature. 

At four in the morning the captain's big fist 
is pounding at your door, gently, so as not to 
wake the "women folks." One daughter and 
the cheery mother are already up, however, and 
busily getting breakfast. 

As my old friend Bill and I scramble into our 
clothes we peer out of the little square-paned 
windows. It is still night, or, rather, a faint 
glimmering suggestive of blue dawn tells us we 
must hustle if we would be in time for the early 
flights of ducks. Moreover, it is snowing and 
the thermometer is below zero. And so, after 
a generous and smoking hot breakfast of fried 
pork, oatmeal, potatoes, and coffee, we get into 
our heavy, coats, draw down over our ears our 
thick caps, shoulder our guns, and follow the 
captain and his eldest boy in the direction of 
the spit of land running out to the booming sea. 

The dawn becomes more pronounced. It is 
245 



chi M> on do II ^C?owfi 



bitterly cold and the snow crunches under one's 
heels. Along the storm-swept road the tele- 
graph-poles are humming ; a flock of crows rise 
lazily ahead out of a frozen field. 

" Too bad Sam ain't along," remarks the cap- 
tain, as he bites into a black plug. " We'll git 
some ducks I'm tellin'ye to-day, boys. I 
knowed when thet thar wind shifted round yes- 
terday thet we'd git luck with it." 

Again he lapses into silence, a stillness broken 
only by the crunching heels and the hum of the 
telegraph wires along the road. The road zig- 
zags to the end of a point. Here, too, is a board 
shanty whose frozen floor is heaped with wooden 
decoys. With seventy of these loaded in the 
bows of two shallow rowboats we make for the 
lea of a rocky breakwater across the bay. This 
breakwater is a tumbled ridge of massive stones 
weighing several tons apiece. They are treach- 
erous footholds, covered with green slime and 
barnacles. But they form a lee to break the 
wind, and having each selected a sheltered cav- 
ern to shoot from, we settle ourselves for the 
morning sport, being obliged every little while 
to vacate our chosen rock for one higher up on 

the pile as the tide rises. 

246 



Qjome Ohlncj,) in J^yattlculat 

Half an hour later our flotilla of wooden birds 
in front of our ambush has become a deadly line 
to three inquisitive broad-bill ducks. 

And now a great flock of broad-bills is un- 
dulating like a V-shaped rift of smoke high above 
us. Now they swing to eastward and settle in a 
black raft far out of gun-shot. Again we let 
them have it right and left as a score of whistlers 
sweep over our decoys. A second later four 
broad-bills come winging toward us and attempt 
to light among the wooden stools, flapping their 
wings mightily to break their impetus, erect, 
with their fat white breasts and webbed feet 
spread as they settle. 

Bang! bang! — bang! Three are kicking in 
the tumbling yellow sea. The fourth has 
swung south like a rocket. 

Our flotilla of wooden ducks roll, bob, and 
rise on the tide. Beyond the breakwater a 
heavy sea is pounding against the rocks, seeth- 
ing white to the horizon as it leaps before a fifty- 
mile gale. But we are" too busy to care much. 
At one o'clock we call a halt, take up our 
decoys, and, gaining the point, tramp home to 
a hot dinner with the captain and his fam- 
ily, peeling off our heavy coats and slicking 

247 



c//i Jo on don uown 



down our hair for the occasion. There is no 
formahty about an American day's shooting. 
Even that most able and distinguished personage 
" Sam " will tell you that. 

Or behold the Parisian's shooting in contrast 
to the Briton's. As the Parisian's happy hunt- 
ing-ground has been my own for several years, 
I have had the good fortune to study the Pari- 
sian sportsman as a type at my leisure. 

Take him within the preserved limits of his 
own chateau^ or, better still, since w^e are hob- 
nobbing about ducks, take him at Sallenelles, 
that famous ducking-ground of the Normandy 
coast. If Monsieur is an ardent shot he will 
have his own " gabion." This is a low, squat- 
roofed and turf-covered, box-like affair, looking 
for all the world like an abandoned ice-house, 
sunk in the mud at low tide and barely visible 
above it at high-water. Within this stanchly 
timbered doll's house are cots, a stove, three 
chairs, and a larder. The only light, when the 
door is closed, comes through a narrow slit of an 
eye protected from wind and rain by a low over- 
hanging eave of an eyebrow. Through this slit 

are thrust the guns, and before the gabion in 

248 



&ome olitngd la Jz) articular, 

an artificial pond are tethered by the leg a score 
or more of live ducks as decoys. 

At dusk the Parisian arrives, a heavily bearded 
don vivaiit, enveloped in a goatskin automobile 
coat and a brand new pair of leggings. 

But he rarely comes alone. The mystery of 
the silent marsh and bay at night appeals to his 
imagination. The weird, shrill cry of sea-fowl 
seeking food and shelter from the open sea seems 
to him bizarre, fantastic. So he brings down 
with him from Paris to his gabion his good 
friend the Marquis, his thin legs trudging under 
another ferocious coat of the black bear. Should 
you happen to be l3ang low all night for ducks 
yourself at Sallenelles, you may easily espy in 
the dusk Monsieur and his friend the Marquis, 
at low tide, slipping and trudging over the sticky 
black mud toward their stronghold. If you 
have but half an eye you will see, too, that they 
are not alone. 

Mademoiselle Gaby de Vere (in sables) is 
shrieking with laughter close behind them, and 
following at her pretty heels is Violette de 
Montmorency, both of the Opera Comique, both 
pretty and both as chic as a new hat on the Rue 

de la Paix. 

249 



cin Joondori C? 



oto/i 



The stalwart hunters beg them to be quiet 
lest they scare the game. " S-s-s-h ! " whisper 
mysteriously the four as they near the ice-house 
of their choice. 

Nay, there are more than four in the little 
procession. There are five ! six ! seven ! That 
good old fisherman Corbet, with the guns and 
the dressing-case of Monsieur ; and that faithful 
Bonpard, who lives half the year by deep-sea 
fishing, is now staggering along under a box 
containing pa^es from Chiboust, bon-bons, and 
cakes. Last, but not least, comes Dalbert, jolly 
old Dalbert, the sailor, his fat arms hugging a 
small case of the Marquis's favorite champagne. 

Eh ! voila, c'est tout ! 

In the morning after the massacre Corbet, 
Bonpard, and Dalbert will wade out and pick 
up the ducks — the reward of those who have 
braved the storm — and later the little party will 
climb into their waiting automobile and rush 
back to Paris, where there will occur a dinner at 
Voisin's, and where the c/ief will receive two 
louis for cooking the two fishy little ducks that 
Gaby and Violette so skilfully killed. Gaby has 
bruised her manicured thumb in closing the 

breech of a light double gun mounted with her 

250 



(^ome (Dntnq.s in J^atticuiat 

monogram in diamonds, and Violette is now bind- 
ing it up with a lace handkerchief dampened in 
the vinegar of the salad dressing. As for Mon- 
sieur, he was sound asleep long before the ices 
had been served. 

C'est la vie ! 

Will you follow the Marquis to Sallenelles, 
accept his Grace the Duke's invitation at 
Stoneycroft, or telephone that good old Yankee 
Captain Wicks? For my part, I believe in vari- 
ety as the spice of life, whether it bring bad luck 
or good. 

There is little formality about Americans 

when we give functions, put on our best clothes, 

smother the house in American Beauty roses, 

and care not for the expense. The first thing 

the guest does is to seek the most informal 

corner from which to watch the blow-out. The 

most popular girl is given the first choice, a 

screened retreat on the stairs behind a palm. 

The social lion, having escaped from the crush 

of supper and ball-room, joins the popular girl. 

Finally others follow suit, and there are none 

left but a few scrawny, ever-amiable wall-flowers, 

for even the sundry old gentlemen are roaring 

over stale jokes by themselves in the host's 

251 



Qjn Joondori Oown 



library. I must confess I never liked women col- 
lectively ; en masse they are a failure. 

I remember once a keen-eyed, simple, wiry, 
withered, and aged multi-millionaire who dwelt 
in the suburbs of a prosperous coal city. This 
generous and genial man went into functions 
because his wife insisted on it and for no other 
reason. I can not say that this able vender of 
coal was henpecked, but he resembled thirty 
cents of stage money beside his velvet-uphol- 
stered and diamond-studded better half. The 
function at which I happened to be his guest 
was so brilliant that it would have illumined 
every coal mine in the vicinity. Roses, the dri- 
est of wine, the hottest of terrapin, and the big- 
gest of symphony orchestras had been purchased 
at one fell swoop. Poor old multi-millionaire ! 
He paid the bills, so who cared for him? 

I learned incidentally that the little old gentle- 
man in a tight frock coat and plain black tie 
standing discreetly behind a table at the bottom 
of the triumphal staircase was the one to whom 
the guests were indebted, yet they swept by him 
warmed into laughter and chatter at idle noth- 
ings by his wines, welcomed by his roses, fed 

by his terrapin, and intoxicated by his orchestra. 

252 



(^onie (jliinqd la UDatticulat 

It was a pleasure to grasp his hand and draw 
up my chair beside his own behind the table 
and thank him for his hospitality. 

" What's your name, young man? " he asked, 
eying me, while a smile puckered his clean- 
shaven upper lip. And when I told him he 
chuckled and leaned nearer. 

" There's a lot of 'em here I don't know," he 
confessed. " Myra, she tends to the names. 
Got a hull list of 'em. When I was a young 
feller like you I used to go to parties when I 
took a notion to, now I've got to be on deck rain 
or shine. What time is it?" he asked with a 
yawn. 

" One o'clock," I informed him. " They are 
just going in to supper." 

" That's good, that's good ! " he exclaimed with 
a sigh. " Mebbe you wouldn't mind joinin' me 
in a little somethin' to eat. I'll tell John to see 
we git somethin' up in my library. I don't often 
git any one to talk to durin' these high jinks. 
The young folks are generally most too busy 
amusin' 'emselves." 

Over the salad and champagne he told me 
much of his early life. Like most typical Amer- 
icans he had by grit, squareness, and good sense 

253 



Qjn J^ondoii (d 



own 



filled an empty pocket at last with gold, and 
what he did not know about coal (anthracite) 
no other man did. 

" Come down and see me in the office to-mor- 
row," he said, as the strains of the last waltz 
floated up the triumphal stairway. *' It always 
seems kind o' homelike down there. I don't let 
'em in — 'ceptin' friends. We'll have a smoke 
and I'll show you around the yard." 

His democracy was refreshing, a democracy 
which does not and can not exist in England, 
and which in France is so universal. 

There is little that is hail-fellow-well-met about 
the Englishman. He is formal even in his 
humor. He does not say, as many a Westerner 
will : 

" If you ever come down my way you've got 
to stay with me. Stay as long as you like, and 
I'll give you the time of your life and the best 
hunting this side of the Rockies. Bring your 
friends and stay a year." 

In England their hospitality is sincere, but 
it is of a guarded, stipulated sort, carefully per- 
formed, and in the best of good form. The 
most informal meal is breakfast. When an- 
nounced the servants withdraw and one helps 

254 



&onie ^(j/iingd in J^aztlculat 

himself to hot plates and the contents of the 
silver chafing-dishes kept warm upon the side- 
board. 

There is a wholesomeness about English 
cooking. Even at formal dinners these gener- 
ous banquets are composed for the most part of 
plain food rarely seasoned, or served with rich 
sauces. Informal as is the breakfast where 
every one helps himself, the luncheons and din- 
ners served by the silent butler and his first and 
second man are excessively formal. The table 
itself, heavily laden with silver and cut glass, 
seems too large. One does not sit as close to 
one's neighbor as we do in America or in 
France. Possibly this has something to do with 
the lack of exuberance and intimacy amiong 
those present. 

In France there are few formal dinners. The 
dinner-table in France is a place to let loose 
one's spirits, to laugh, to tell stories, to be merry 
withal. A Frenchman never misses an oppor- 
tunity to make love with his neighbor, be she 
pretty, naive, or interesting. He may never 
have seen her before, this charming woman he 
has just taken out to dinner; possibly he may 
never see her again ; but to have lost the oppor- 

255 



Sn Joondon ^ 



ox^n 



tunity of making as much love as he dares while 
he is beside her would seem to him a crime. 
Having dined well, how thoroughly he enjoys 
this chance tete-a-tete! If she be a P>enchwoman 
she expects it of him. She is quite safe since 
they are not alone, and what he says he has by 
the next dinner forgotten, for a new neighbor is 
at his right, the pretty wife of a grumpy old 
bear, an ambassador. Upon this occasion Mon- 
sieur is quite serious as he kisses the tips of her 
soft little fingers and bids her good night. 

In England they are not given to this sort of 
thing in the same wa}^ Possibly when my lady 
hears that Jack is lying badly shot up from lead- 
ing a charge in India, she will consent at last to 
marry him. There is little doubt that he went 
into the thick of the fight discouraged in his 
suit, and fought heroically for her. The French- 
man argues '* never be in love with one woman, 
be in love with eight." 

My host's stables were as perfect of their kind 

as one could find throughout England. They 

formed an enclosed quadrangle, access to which 

could only be obtained by the oaken doors of a 

single entrance, wide and high enough to admit 

a coach. The key to these doors was at all 

256 




Arrangement withW. Thacker & Co., London. 

''they ride early and late 



Sn JLjondon ^(oo 



wn 



times in the safe-keeping of the head coachman, 
and, this barrier being locked at ten at night, 
wo to the belated stable-boy or tippling groom 
who came in late and roused his majesty to gain 
entrance ! 

These stables were an important establish- 
ment in themselves. Ranged about the enclosed 
quadrangle were various sections, simple, prac- 
tical, and hygienic in their arrangement, and 
free from all showy display. Within the main 
corridor leading to the horse-stalls, harness- 
rooms, etc., hung two signs, two golden rules, 
these from the master of the house. One read, 
" Be kind to all animals," and its mate ran, 
" Have a place for everything, and keep every- 
thing in its place." 

Again I must refer to the fact that the stables 
of my host were not built yesterday. The head 
coachman had begun life within them as a sta- 
ble-boy over thirty years ago, and here, too, any 
stable-boy might rise to be a head coachman. 
There was nothing about the care or driving of 
horses that he might not learn within the various 
departments, even to becoming a skilled veteri- 
nary. For in one room were cases of remedies, 

drawers full of bandages, and glass shelves hold- 

258 



&ome o/ilng*) in J^atticular. 

ing an assortment of surgical instruments, while 
the walls of this repository were hung with 
charts showing the anatomy of the horse to the 
minutest detail. And yet my host kept but few 
horses, less than a dozen for his own use. Six 
of these lived in a spotless row of stalls faced 
with dove-gray tiles as being less tiring to their 
eyes. An automatic heater kept their private 
suite at a ventilated temperature gaged to a de- 
gree under all conditions, and behind their shi- 
ning hoofs ran a strip of sand as even as if a 
receding wave had left it spotless upon a beach. 

Hard by were clean-smelling box-stalls, and 
beyond them an isolated infirmary for conta- 
gious diseases. 

Still further along the quadrangle were the 
grooms' quarters and their dining-room, and ad- 
joining it the house of the head coachman. Op- 
posite it one entered rooms for bridles ; another 
for saddles. In case my host's guest came 
with his hunters there were still other suites 
for their accommodation, and rooms where 
his horses might have a warm bath after the 
day's run. 

Over one flank of the quadrangle was con- 
structed a glass shed for the waiting carriages 

259 



c//i <J^ on do II (do 



wn 



for the nights when my host thought fit to 
give a ball. 

In the carriage-room were traps, coaches, 
drags, coupes, and broughams, and one brake 
which I took for a modern vehicle and which 
my host explained to me had been but slightly 
altered since it w^as presented to his grandfather 
nearly seventy years ago. It had been honestly 
built, and is still doing its duty as solid and flaw^- 
less to-day as the year it was made. 

And yet throughout this humane and splen- 
did installation, perfect in every detail, there 
was, as I say, an unostentatious simplicity that 
was charming. No wonder any groom having 
graduated from such a service had but, as my 
host informed me, to mention his stable as his 
training-school to obtain a place in any of the 
best stables in London. 

Here was an estate, then, like so many in Eng- 
land, where the servants had grown up on it 
since childhood. 

At the end of a labyrinth of rhododendrons a 
little old woman is busily picking up the stray 
twigs that have been blown down during the 
night. She is very old and wrinkled, and she 
curtseys as we pass, looking at my host very 

260 



(^ome (Dlitnqd in J^azticular. 

much with the same awe and reverence that 
Bridg-et might look at the Pope. Long ago 
upon this very estate (she was but sixteen then) 
her dimpled hands churned the best of butter 
claily and her cheeks were like roses. In those 
days every young* groom fell in love with her, 
and all this happened long before my young- 
lord's eyes had seen the world over the edge of 
his cradle. To-day she curtseys to him some- 
what in awe, I regret to say. 

In France one's faithful servitors become 
more a part of the family. The grande dame 
has more than once been known to confide in 
her maid and weep over the shoulder of her old 
nurse ; and the seigneur when hard pressed in 
the vicissitudes of war or romance has found 
comfort and fresh courage in the confidence of 
his trusted valet. 

In America when we need a cook, maid, or 

man-servant, we call up the intelligence office on 

the telephone and await the decision of the 

domestic. If we pass muster in their eyes we 

engage them. Or it is more than possible that 

Mary Ann may not approve of her mistress; in 

this case Mary Ann, being Irish, will tell her so. 

Yet with all this peace and plenty of English 
261 



Sn Joondon Oowfi 



country life one does not wonder that the young 
man, forced to mind his P's and Q's within the 
confines of his parental estate, runs to London 
for a day or a night whenever he gets a chance. 
Often the faithful old family butler is his best 
friend, helping him out of his escapades, even 
lending the young gentleman a few pounds (at 
interest) that he may escape for twenty-four 
hours from the great silent house of his ances- 
tors and the humdrum, staid, and over-respecta- 
ble little village, to dine at such mundane resorts 
as the Continental and enjoy to the full an 
evening at the Gaiety and a night about town. 
Even a cabby's shelter is a haven of good cheer 
and rest after a period of family prayers and 
formal dinners. Is it not very much to-day as it 
was with Pendennis and the Fotheringay? 

Poor Pen ! That first night when in company 
with Foker in the stuffy little theater at Bay- 
mouth he had sat as in a dream following with 
both eyes and his heart every gesture of that 
heartless beauty upon the stage whom at first 
sight he knew he loved madly ! Did he not 
mount at The George and ride as madly 
homeward to tumble into bed at an unseemly 

hour, and did he not come " splendi dl down to 

262 



(^onie o/iing^^ in J^att'iciilaz 

breakfast" (the next morning), ''patronizing lit- 
tle Laura, who had been strumming her music 
lesson for hours before ; and who, after he had 
read the prayers (of which he did not heed one 
single syllable), wondered at his grand appear- 
ance and asked him to tell her what the play 
was about " ? 

Then Pen's excuses to his mother. " He must 
find Foker and Miss Fotheringay, and having 
taken leave of his mother and little Laura, hav- 
ing conducted himself during breakfast in a very 
haughty and supercilious manner, was presently 
heard riding out of the stable court. He went 
gently at first, but galloped like a madman as 
soon as he thought he was out of hearing." 

Yes, indeed, it is quite the same to-day. 

It happened that I knew one of these latter- 
day Pendennises who insisted upon my spend- 
ing week's end with him at his house, a house 
which, tho not as imposing as that of my young 
lord, was far livelier. It was a low rambling 
structure provided with a hunting-stable and 
outlying kennels. 

Indeed, my young friend lived most of the 

time in the saddle, a house in which lived too a 

263 



c//i Joondon (Dow>n 



white-haired, ruddy old father and a sweet-faced 
mother and three shm, trim, fair-haired, and very 
shy young daughters, the edges of whose look- 
ing-glasses were stuffed full, instead of with the 
usual collection of dinner and dance invitations, 
with dozens of cards telling the exact date and 
hour they were due upon the hunting-field. As 
for that hospitable old gentleman, he, being well 
advanced in years, rode but seldom outside of 
his morning constitutional (one of. which would 
have sufficed me for a week) , and found com- 
fort in his remaining waking hours with his port 
and his favorite books. 

In the afternoon my friend would summon 
his tandem and we would take to the highroads 
and byroads of Kent, of which there is no pret- 
tier country in all England. A tandem is an 
invention in which one trusts one's life to the 
good-will of the leader ; evidently my young friend 
and the leader — a proud black horse — were on 
the best of terms, for the latter kept decently 
to the road, altho it seemed to me at times he 
was about to sail off in the air. There was a 
subtle humor lurking in the stylish beast's eye 
which I did not like. 

But dogs and horses, hurdles and rabbits, do 
264 



Qjn Jhondon Ooxvri 



not constitute all of life. A plot had been laid 
for Blue Monday, a plot in which there was a 
prime conspirator, my host, and a willing accom- 
plice, myself. Monday, it was understood, he 
should dine with me in London. By gad, sir! 
he looked forward to this impromtpu spree as 
a soldier might to a tw^enty-four-hour leave from 
his barracks. 

I can not say that his conservative family were 
as enthusiastic over the idea as they might have 
been. They had no liking for this young man's 
stopping in town, and they openly suggested at 
luncheon a late train back that very same evening. 

Bless me ! what a time in getting away, but 
we gained our point, or rather, I gained it for 
him, and we went into London town as free as 
two sailors and passed one of those staidly hilari- 
ous evenings at dinner, the play, and supper, 
that would have seemed to any reasonable Pari- 
sian a waste of money and time. To this merry 
young Englishman it w^as a lark — this night's 
freedom from the great house and its village, 
where 

" Those whom you seldom ever knew 
Knew almost every single breath you drew." 

Tuesday morning that genial fellow took the 
266 



&oine (jliiagd in UDatttculat 

train back to the house of his father, while I re- 
mained in London town, but not for long. 

A handful of days and the next leaf torn from 
my calendar would disclose another Sunday. I 
had had enough of these London Sundays. For 
me at least there would be no more London 
Sundays, no more Brighton, no more silent 
streets or thirsty hours, no more tame concerts, 
no foggy afternoons. Next Sunday would be 
replete with sparkle and good cooking, rare 
wines from Bordeaux, light laughter and charm ; 
and with these things gleaming merrily in my 
imagination, I sent a telegram. It was to an old 
friend, Charles, the maitre cThbtel at the Res- 
taurant Weber. It counseled him to secure a 
table for two in my favorite corner at eight, 
and two seats at the Theatre des Capucines. 




267 



s 



:>fivot 



s 



nvot 



" Entente cordiale ! " magic words ! 

It will be interesting to see the result of this 
cordial understanding, so sympathetic and bi- 
zarre. I have seen the French flag crossed in 
devotion with the English colors and waved 
gaily in unison to the blare of the band from 
every music-hall stage in London. 

I have seen that august and all-powerful body, 
the London County Council, paraded about in 
Parisian landaus, guarded by cuirassiers, taken 
to the opera, shown the tomb of Napoleon, and 
fed at the expense of the Republique Fran9aise. 

And the school-children, bless their little 
hearts ! Did they not rehearse for weeks before 
their arrival and learn like good little parrots, 
"God save zee King" (not one word of which 
they understood), and did they not unload it 
from their minds nobly on that memorable day, 
in their starched white frocks and neatly combed 
hair, well-soaped and secured with a blue bow? 

Yes, indeed, " Vive les Anglais ! " 

271 



ojn Joondon 6 



own 



I have been kept awake in London town by 
wild cheering, and the " Marseillaise " mingled 
with more " God save zee King ! " bellowed up 
from a rousing banquet given to the City Coun- 
cil of Paris. 

" Here ! Here ! Encore ! Bis ! Allons en- 
fants de la patrie, e-er! Le jour de gloire est 
arrive ! Hip, hip, hooray ! " 

It was the German maztre (T^ibtel who winked 
one eye when it was all over. 

But it is not all over yet. In the mean time: 
" Aftaire you, mon cher Jean Bull." 
" Tut! tut! After you, my dear Gaston." 
" Mais pas du tout, mon cher ami, I in-siste." 
"Nonsense! Egad, my dear fellow, I'll not 
hear of it." 

" Zen we shall, w4iat you say, make zee com- 
promise, and link zee arm." 

"Splendid idea, old chap. You know I've 
been thinking we are rather clever at diplomacy, 
eh.f^ Come, a night-cap before you go." 

" Merci ! my heart is too full zat you do me 
zee honaire." 

" Waiter, two Scotch and sodas." 

" But the entente cordiale, mon cher?" 

" Ah, yes, I forgot. Put in a dash of absinthe." 

272 



Cbppteciationd 

of 

&Jlot~. Sf, di)e^keUxj Smith' a 

Utliez cSookd 



Within the Gates of the Kiifgdom of Fun 

" If you wish to thoroughly soak yourself with the con- 
centrated essence of enjoyment, read this book quickly. 
It is too good to miss."— TA^ Philadelphia Item. 

How Paris Amuses 



Itself 



By F. BERKELEY SMITH 
Author of "The Real Latin Quarter" 



THIS jolly, handsome book is the very incarnation of that 
spirit of amusement which reigns supreme in the capital 
of the world's fun. The author unites the graphic skill of 
the artist, the infectious enthusiasm of the lover of fun and gaiety, 
and the intimate personal knowledge of the long-time resident 
in this great playground of the world. In spirit the reader can 
visit with a delightful comrade all the nooks of jollity knovm only 
to the initiated, enjoy all the sparkle and glitter of the ever- mov- 
ing panorama of gaiety, and become a part of the merry throng. 

" It is the gayest book of the season and is as handsome mechanically 
as it is interesting as a narrative. The sparkle, the glow, the charm of the 
risque, the shimmer of silks, and the glint of jewels — are all so real and 
apparent." — Buffalo Courier. 

" The very spirit of modern Paris is prisoned in its text."— Life. 

" There is about the whole book that air of light-hearledness and 
frolic which is essentially Parisian. This book is a book for everybody — 
those who know Paris and those who do not know it." — North Ameri- 
can, Philadelphia. 

1 35 Captivating Pictures 

Six in colors, 1 6 full-page half-tone inserts, 58 full-page text 
drawings, 55 half-page and smaller text drawings by the 
author and several French artists, including Galaniz, San- 
cha, Cardona, Sunyer, Michael, Perenet, and Pezilla. 

J2mo, Cloth, Handsome Couer Design, $1.50, Post-paid. 
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBS.. NEW YORK 



HOW PARIS AMUSES ITSELF 



Full of Frolic and Sparkle 

Do you know how Paris amuses itself ? You may have 
heard all kinds of delicious rumors. You may have seen 
a tantalizing glimpse yourself in some fleeting visit. You 
know, doubtless, something of the gay city's reputation. Now 
F. Berkeley Smith tells you all about it in this charming book. 

Full of Contagrious Gaiety 

" There is nothing of the guide book in this breezy volume on the en- 
tertainments offered by the capital of fashion and frivolity. The merry 
sparkle of it all is reproduced with the pen of an enthusiast and illustrated 
by artists who catch the vivacity and mood of contagious gaiety, which is 
cultivated as the most profitable industry of the festive cAy. "—Phila. Press. 

Delightfully Realistic and Appreciative 

" No other present day writer of Paris is so realistic in his pictures of 
that most interesting city, few writers have displayed the sympathetic, the 
appreciative insight into Parisian character and habits that Mr. Smith dis- 
plays with unbiased, comprehensive attitude." — Book News, Philadelphia. 

Its Spirit is Infectious 

" The charm of the work is that it is quite convincmg, and leaves one 
eager to try for himself the amusements described." — The Lamp, N. Y. 

Every Feature Pictured 

" The shows, restaurants, theaters, and circuses of Paris are pictured 
for us in all the abundance of details which the most inquisitive reader has 
a right to demand." — Review of Reviews. 

A Rollicking Account 

"The book is a rollicking account of Parisian shows of every dsserip- 
tion. The style is lively and there are innumerable personal anecdotes." 

—Town and Country. 

Fascinating Explorations 

" The fascination of the delightful unknown awaits such readers as 
have not ventured in the flesh the amusing confines of the world's gayest 
capital."— 5/. Louis Republic. 

Abundant Enjoyment 

" It is a fascinating book which those who know Paris and those \\ho 
have the pleasure of making its acquaintance in future store will alike 
abundantly enjoy." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 



HOW PARIS AMUSES ITSELF 

A Delightful Little 
Journey to Bohemia 

THE author of this dehghtf ul book gives you the freedom 
of the city. You visit the theaters, and cabarets, and 
fetes foraines, and boulevards, and gardens, and vv^ater- 
ways, and quiet little supper-rooms. You w^ander through 
the honeycomb of ateliers, and balls, and cafes, and circuses. 
All the amusements of Paris pass in review^ before you until 
you feel almost a part of the gay ensemble w^hich is forever 
busy amusing its ow^n amusing self. 

No Comer Overlooked 

" It is a little journey in Bohemia under the most delightful guidance, 
and not a fact or folly of gayest Paris overlooked." — Albany Argus. 

Crisp, Clear, Vivid 

" For the princely sum of $1 .50 one may take a flying trip to Paris 
that will give us as crisp, clear, vivid impression of the gay metropolis as 
many a traveler has been able to get after spending several hundred times 
that sum." — Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 

Full of Gaiety and Joy 

"The gaiety, the joy of life, the charm of Paris are all suggested in 
this \>oo\i." —The Daily Express, London. 

Splendid Picture of Gay Paris 

" Mr. Smith has given his readers a splendid opportunity to become 
acquainted with Parisian gaieties." — Grand Rapids Herald. 

The Cheu-m of Pen, Brush, Camera 

" Pen, brush, and camera combine in the book to make a vivid and 
intimate picture of Parisians at play. Whatever he says is of living in- 
terest." — Indianapolis Journal. 

Replete With Irresistible Satisfaction 

"Replete with an attraction that will prove almost irresistible." — 

Chicago Journal, 

Delights on Every Page 

" It makes no difference at what page it is opened, there are gaiety 
and mirth in waiting." — Washingion Post. 



HOW PARIS AMUSES ITSELF 



"Simply Irresistible" 

" The next best thing to actually being in Paris is to be able to read 
such graphic, accurate, and buoyant descriptions of the gay side of life in 
Paris as Mr. F. Berkeley Smith gives in this hook."— Neu; York Times 
Saturday Review. 

" Each page scintillates with information. It is a book that will instruct 
as well as entertain, and its popularity is aiSsuied."—Prouidence Telegram. 

" It is a light, fluttery sort of a book. There has been no one before 
who told us of this distinct side of Paris so lightly and so pleasantly as Mr. 
Smith." — Cleveland Leader. 

" The graphic accounts of the little theaters and their habitues, and their 
admirable viands and service, and of the careless, merry life of the people, 
are especially enchanting. The book is not only readable, it has got to be 
read once you pick it \yp."—Salt Lake Tribune, Salt Lake City. 

"The illustrations catch the gay spirit of the text admirably." — Chi- 
cago Record- Herald. 

" This book crams between its frivolous turquoise covers such a kaleid- 
oscope of fun, wit, coquettish anecdote, fascinating types, flashes of pathos, 
snatches of biography, and genuine cleverness that it will be read with more 
gusto than any book of the sort ever published. . . . Every one positively 
should possess a copy of this immeasurably attractive book." — Philadel- 
phia Item, 

" An entertaining, informing, and handsome volume." — Public Opin- 
ion, New York. 

"To go through its pages is like whirling along in a fiacre through the 
boulevards, beside the quays, and across the river, getting the whole pano- 
ramic effect of the most wonderful city in the yfot\d.— Pro/. Harry Thurston 
Peck. 

" It is original and piquant, humorous and instructive, a combination 
of qualities that always makes a book worth while." — International 
Studio. 

" A breathless, sparkling, superficial book illustrated with caricatures, 
posters, pictures of Paris beauties and Paris crowds at their holiday mak- 
ing."— L' Art de la Mode, New York. 



J2mo, Cloth, Handsome Cover Design, $1.50, Post-paid. 
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBS., NEW YORK 



Breezy Glimpses into the Heart of Bohemia 

" The author gets at the intimate secrets, the subtle charm of the Quar- 
ter. A spirit of gaiety runs through the book." — Phila. Press. 

By F. BERKELEY I 'L ^ Author of "How 

SMITH 1 lie Paris Amuses Itself" 

Real Latin Quarter 

IN these captivating and realistic sketches, the reader is taken 
into the very heart of Bohemia and show^n the innermost 
life and characters in this little world of art and amusement. 
The author pictures with brush, pen, and camera every nook 
and comer of the Quarter with such light and vivid touches 
that the reader is made to feel the very spirit, breathe the very 
atmosphere within these fascinating precincts. We look down 
upon the giddy whirl of the "Bal Bullier," enjoy a cozy 
breakfast at "Lavenue's," stroll through the Luxembourg 
Gardens, peep into studios and little corners known only to the 
initiated, mingle with the throng of models, grisettes, students, 
and artists on " Boul* Miche " and in a hundred other ways 
see and enjoy this unconventional center. 

"A True Picture," Say the Artists 

Charles Dana Gibson : " h is like a trip to Paris." 
John W. Alexander: " It is the real thing." 
Frederic Remington : " You have left nothing undone." 
Ernest Thompson Seton : " A true picture of the Latin Qjjarter as 
I knew it." 

A Richly Made Book 

Watercohr Frontispiece by F. Hopkinson Smith. About 100 origi- 
nal drawings and camera snap shots by the Author, and two 
caricatures in color by the celebrated French caricaturist San- 
cha. 12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.20, post-paid. 

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBS., NEW YORK 



THE REAL LATIN QUARTER 

A Charming, 
Merry, Captivating Book 

"The author presents in a breezy and delightfully facetious manner 
glimpses of the habitues and the decidedly unconventional life that is lived 
in this renowned center of Bohemia." — Messenger and Visitor, St. 
John, N. B. 

" It is the most intimate view of this famous section that has ever been 
afforded English readers.** — St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 

" Its charm lies in the little bits of every-day life, in which we feel at 
once a keen and sympathetic observer.*' — Baltimore Morning Herald. 

" It is by far the most satisfactory work on the subject that has ever 
been rritten, the most accurate and the most thorough in portraying the 
life and interpreting the spirit of the real LaU^ Qaarlei."— Temper Post. 

"This book has the ' Couleur locale.'" — New Orleans Daily 
Picayune. 

"He has made a book to delight all readers.**— 565/o« Evening 
Transcript. 

"A true picture of that part of Paris.** — Facts and Fiction. 

" It is vastly illuminating.** — The Pilgrim, Battle Creek, Mich. 

" Proves Mr. Smith to be one of the most delightful of cicerones."— 

Glasgow Evening Times. 

"A charming and readable book.'* — Minneapolis Tribune. 

" Graphic, buoyant, and altogether delightful. **—H//7aa'e//i/!/a North 
American. 

"One of the best books about that greatly celebrated and much 
abused neighborhood ever written in English." — Times Saturday Review, 
New York. 

" The author gives us glimpses of the gay French capital's Bohemian 
life that win praise and admiration from those who know.** — Baltimore 
Morning Herald. 

" It is decidedly the cleverest impressionalist picture of life along the 
' Boul' Miche* that the present day has HiSoided."— Evening Journal, 
Lewiston. 

" It is doubtful if a year*s reading can give a better conception of life 
as it really is in the French capital than this hook."— Chicago Daily News 



■J 



THE REAL LATIN QUARTER 

Written 
in a Spirited, Off-hand Style 

" When you have read this book you will know the real Latin Quar- 
ter as well as you will come to know it without living there yourself." — 

Mail and Express, New York. 

"When one has read the book he is convinced that he has been 
bouncing merrily over breezy waves of life and mirth and humor and pathos 
and chartreuse and all other features of the Quarter. The book abounds 
in pictures of pretty faces and Parisian scenes dropped artistically into a vivid 
panorama of word painting." — Chicago Evening Post. 

" It is a charming book of reminiscences to those who know the most 
picturesque corner of Paris, and in the stranger without her gates it pro- 
vokes a desire for closer acquaintance. "5pr/«_g//eW Republican. 

" Would you peep into the Bohemia of Parts, then take up this book." 

—American Hebrew. 

" The description moves so deftly that one can almost see the gay art 
students wandering along the narrow streets." — Cincinnati Post. 

" The author has made a belter picture of the famous Bohemia than 
heretofore published."— Cfey^/a«i^ World. 

" He shows his ihoroiigh familiarity with the scenes and types he 
pictures.— Harper' s Bazar. 

" A charming volume. Mr. Smith does not fail to get at the intimate 
secrets and the subtle charm of the Latin Quarter." — The Argonaut, San 
Francisco. 

" Mr. Smith writes in a lively and entertaining style which preserves 
the atmosphere of the unconventional free and easy life he describes." — 

Portia n d Exp ress. 

" It is a series of flashlight pictures of student life in Paris, filled with 
the spirit of the Quarter '\\se^."— Buffalo Express. 

" He brings to his work just the observant, sympathetic, artistic tem- 
perament necessary to make such a book a successful undertaking." — New 

York Journal. 

" His clever, brilliant description serves to illuminate the many draw- 
ings and camera snap shots that adorn the volume." — Public Ledger, Phila. 



THE REAL LATIN QUARTER 

Enables 
You to See the True Quarter 

" He has caught the real spirit of the Latin Quarter as it has not been 
caught since Du Maurier gave it to us in 'Trilby'." — Denver Republican. 

"A very realistic, captivating volume."— 5/. Paul Dispatch. 

" It is a picture of Parisian artist and student life in the modem days, 
vivid and spirited, and has scored a decided success." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

" It is made up of bright sketches of the Parisian Bohemia, and those 
who have seen and were a part of the unique life on the south side of the 
Seine agree in declaring it an exquisite picture, because of its charm and 
M&\i\.y."— Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Wash. 

" He writes in a breezy, entertaining style, and has interspersed his 
writings with deftly done sketches, illustrative of his subject." — Newark 
Advertiser. 

"The book is bright and clever." — Chicago Tribune. 

" It is very charming and very real." — Boston Journal. 

A Beautiful Volume Richly Illustrated 

" It is richly illustrated."— /^//s^wr^ Gazette. 

" It is like cream and cake to read these sketches, and to study the ac- 
companying drawings and photographs — they go together and make up a 
light and merry book." — Louisville Courier- Journal. 

" Text and illustrations vividly picture the life of this interesting and 
attractive portion of Paris." — New York Herald. 

"All who pick up this most attractive book will be fascinated by it. 

—Milwaukee Sentinel. 

" His clever, brilliant description serves to illuminate the many draw- 
ings and camera snap shots w^hich adorn the volume." — Philadelphia 
Public Ledger. 

12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.20. Post-paid, Handsomely Printed 
and Bound and Copiously Illustrated 

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBS.. NEW YORK 



PARISIANS OUT OF DOORS 

In the Land of Sunshine 
and Flowers 

PARIS is so far away ? Oh, no I You may board the 
swift train called the Cote d'Azur Rapide, with F. 
Berkeley Smith, monsieur, and a chick little Parisienne, 
and in less than fifteen hours you will be whirled down into 
the land of flowers, oranges, sunshine and blue skies. When 
the train rolls into Nice, you can alight and enjoy all the 
delights of this town of roses, laughter and carnival, mingle 
with the cosmopolitan multitude that strolls along the prom- 
enade, look into the Casino de Jetty and listen to the melody 
of a delicious nocturne mingled with the vicious clink of silver 
and gold, as the feverish and reckless throng wins and loses 
at one of the world's most celebrated gaming tables. 

All the other forms of out-of-door pleasure and fun enjoyed 
by this pleasure=loving people in Paris and out you may enjoy 
if you will come under the spell of this fascinating volume. 



" Altogether delightful in its wanderings and its chattiness and its 
drawings." — New York World. 

" His descriptions of life in Paris, which he is intimate with to the 
smallest detail, are not merely interesting, but actually fascinating." — 
Standard Union, Brooklyn. 

" In a breezy, informal style, the author pictures every form of out- 
of-door amusement in and about the capital of the world's fun." — Nash- 
ville American. 

" On the land and on the water, in the gardens, the parks, the sum- 
mer resorts, in the mountains and seashore, the automobile trips, the reader 
will mingle with the throng of pleasure seekers, of dilletantes, of workers. 
— Pittsburg Leader. 



The Breeziest Books on Parisian Life 

" For delightful reading one can turn with pleasant 
anticipations certain of fulfilment to F. Berkeley Smith's 
trilogy of books on Paris life, ' The Real Latin Qyarter ' 
and ' How Paris Amuses Itself,* and the latest volume just 
out, 'Parisians Out of Doors.* "^Burlington Hawk Eye. 

Parisians Out of Doors 

By F. BERKELEY SMITH 

Author of "How Paris Amuses Itself** and "The Real 
Latin Quarter *' 



" It is a kaleidoscopic miscellany of anecdote, grave and gay ; 
brief bits of biography and impressionistic portrayal of types, 
charming glimpses into Parisian life and character, and, above 
all, descriptions of the city's chief, and, to outw^ard view, sole 
occupation — the art of enjoying oneself. Tourists have learned 
that Mr. Smith is able to initiate them into many mysteries 
uncatalogued or only guardedly hinted at by more staidly 
respectable and professional guides." — The Globe, New^ York. 

" Smith*s delightfully sympathetic Paris [Parisians Out of Doors] 
would make a wooden Indian part with hb cigars.** — Frederic Remington. 

" Naturally, these scenes and places and the persons who add the 
living touches to the pictures are described from the viewpoint of one who 
knows them well, for Mr. Smith holds the wo) Id of Paris in the hollow of 
his hand. This is an ideal book for summer reading.** — New York Press. 



12mo, cloth, handsome binding, illustrated with drawings by the 

author and several French artists, and water-color frontispiece by 

F. Hopkinson Smith. $1 .50 net; by mail, $1 .64. 



FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBS.. NEW YORK 



PARISIANS OUT OF DOORS 

Everywhere Out of Doors 
with Parisians at Play 

WITHIN the sparkling city itself, among the merri- 
makers of the Bois, in cozy cafe terraces, and in all 
the comers of the unroofed Paris ; out of Paris, in 
sylvan nooks and kingly forests, over smooth highways senti- 
neled by lofty poplars, through fields gay in poppies ; at the 
seashore resorts, on the sunny sands atTrouville, in the flower- 
scented Riviera ; in queiint inns and villages of Normandy — yes, 
everywhere where Parisians amuse themselves out of doors. 



" This volume comes like a fresh whiff from the boulevards of the 
gay city. There is a nectar in every paragraph that exhilarates. It is 
written in a summerish, holiday style that suggests the swish of fluffy 
skirts, merry laughs, and the giddy promenade (and all the rest of the 
whirl of 'the only city*). Best of all, however, the sketches at random 
are intimate, true, and convincing." — World-News, Cleveland. 

" A book appealing to the vacation sentiment, and freighted besides 
with lively and entertaining comment on the summer life of Paris. . . . 
A volume of unfailing interest, its pages as enlivening as French wine." — 
Boston Advertiser. 

" No other present-day writer on Paris is so realistic in his pictures of 
that most interesting city, few writers have displayed the sympathetic, the 
appreciative insight into Parisian character and habits that Mr. Smith dis- 
plays in unbiased, comprehensive attitude." — Book News, Philadelphia. 

Mr. Smith's powers of observation are first rate, those of imagina- 
tion are equal, and with his clear style he places before us the truest pic- 
tures of the men and women of Paris that can be drawn." — Sun, Baltimore. 

" Best of all the books the author has written is this new one, as was 
to be expected, since it is devoted to life in the open air, a setting which 
yields unfailing interest to every stray act in the human comedy." — Kansas 
City Star. 



PARISIANS OUT OF DOORS 

Another Play-time Trip to 
the Land of the Gay 

EVERY nook and comer of this Paradise of a city is full 
of a gay throng to whom life in the open air means 
nine-tenths of the joy of living. The author of this 
delightful book has reproduced the very spirit of gaiety and 
fun that characterizes this out-of-doors-loving people. The 
reader shares the amusement of bowling along broad, poplar- 
lined boulevards, picnicking wdth merry parties in the Bois, 
fishing, hunting, and all other forms of sport dear to Parisians. 



" The first two volumes of the trilogy met with a cordial reception 
from American readers, the third volume should be equally welcome for 
it is fully as well written. In some lights it is the most attractive of Mr. 
Smith's trilogy." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

" Crisp, fresh, and attractive both inside and out —in every way a fit 
successor to the two bright pieces of descriptive writing which have pre- 
ceded it." — Ohio State Journal. 

" A particularly charming book. It radiates color and vivacity from 
every pore of the pictures which it paints for us in words that welcome 
both author and reader into good fellowship. It is thoroughly alive with 
just that quality of spontaneous life which accurately expresses the typical 
charm of the Parisian temperament. . . . The work, as a whole, is richly 
full of life-warmth— that substantial quality particularly grateful to both 
artist and layman." — Boston Ideas. 

" The book is a joyous, happy, entertaining panorama of life in and 
by the happy set of Paris; it is decidedly good to read." — Salt Lake 
Tribune. 



l2mo. Cloth, Handsome Cover ^Design, $1 .50, Net 
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY. PUBS.. NEW YORK 



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